SOULS 

A  Personal 
inio  Spiritual  Exp> 

^ARTHUR  E,C0 


3 


A  FOREWORD    BY          |?| 

GENERAL;BRAMWELL  B  o OT  i 1  ;: 


EXCHANGE 


SOULS  IN  KHAKI 


ARTHUR    E.    COPPING 


AMUC*- 

SOULS  IN  KHAKI  u>i>f 

BEING  A  PERSONAL  INVESTIGATION  INTO 

SPIRITUAL    EXPERIENCES  AND    SOURCES 

OF  HEROISM  AMONG  THE  LADS  IN  THE 

FIRING  LINE 


BY 

ARTHUR  E.  COPPING 

\\ 

WITH  A  FOREWORD  BY 

GENERAL  BRAMWELL  BOOTH 


HODDER  &  STOUGHTON 

NEW  YORK 
GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


CS5 


COPYRIGHT,  1917, 
BT  GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


EXCHANGE 


PRINTED  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES  OP  AMERICA 


FOREWORD 

BY  GENERAL   BOOTH 

WAR  is  a  confession  of  failure  —  a  failure  to  live 
even  on  the  level  of  an  intelligent  humanity.  It 
is,  in  fact,  a  descent  into  the  realm  of  nature  "red 
in  tooth  and  claw"  —  the  realm,  that  is,  of  the 
fighting  beast.  And  the  fighting  beast  at  a  time 
when  we  can  only  see  blood-shot  eyes  and  blood- 
stained lips.  But  even  so,  it  is  not  wholly  bestial; 
sentiments  of  mutual  respect  for  desperate  foes, 
some  regard  for  courage  and  endurance,  some 
admiration  for  sacrifice,  remain.  Men  do  not 
finally  lose  control  of  themselves  even  in  battle, 
nor  do  they  depart  wholly  from  submitting  to  the 
control  of  others. 

The  overwhelming  sense  of  force  and  the  appeal 
to  force  which  takes  possession  of  the  mass  in  war 
and  war  time  cannot  destroy,  may  even  encourage, 
the  higher  sense  of  the  spiritual  and  the  mystical. 
Men  have  said  to  me  that  in  the  very  agony  of 
conflict,  and  while  the  heavens  were  darkened  with 
shot  and  shell  and  the  earth  itself  shook  under  their 
feet,  they  have  been  more  intimately  conscious  of 
the  reality  and  presence  of  the  Divine  than  in  the 
quietude  of  normal  life.  I  confidently  anticipate 
that  many  men  will  return  from  their  awful  and 
cruel  experiences  of  the  war  with  a  quickened  sense 


900751 


vi  FOREWORD 

of  the  supernatural,  and  with  a  new  power  to  "lay 
hold"  of  the  eternal  things. 

And  amid  the  abyssmal  darkness  in  which  the 
elemental  forces  rage  and  tear  and  slay,  and  while 
death — on  a  scale  never  before  dreamed  of — looks 
on,  some  other  good  things  emerge  and  stand  up 
and  challenge.  Love  for  country  and  human 
kind;  love  for  home  and  wife  and  bairns — these 
are  always  to  be  found  in  every  army,  shining  with 
a  peculiar  charm  against  the  dark  background  of 
misery  and  hate.  Love  for  God;  love  for  good- 
ness; devotion  to  comrades  even  unto  death; 
surrender  to  a  great  cause;  personal  sacrifice  for 
another's  life; — these  also  are  among  the  sweet 
and  flagrant  flowers  that  bloom  even  upon  the 
stricken  fields  of  war. 

This  little  book,  by  a  writer  who  describes  what 
he  himself  has  seen,  and  who  has  a  gift  both  for 
the  seeing  and  the  describing,  tells  of  some  of  those 
precious  growths  in  the  desert — few  in  number,  no 
doubt,  but  so  rich  in  their  inherent  force  and  beauty 
as  to  make  the  blood-stained  wilderness  blossom  as 
the  rose.  For  us  of  the  Salvation  Army  the  present 
fratricidal  war  is  an  inscrutable  agony.  Neverthe- 
less it  may  be  that,  when  much  that  now  fills  with 
horror  a  world  of  woe  has  passed  away  for  ever, 
gracious  deeds  and  experiences  such  as  are  referred 
to  in  the  following  pages  may  still  remain  a  precious 
and  enduring  heritage  to  all  who  believe  in  the 
grace  of  God  and  in  the  power  of  Love. 

INTERNATIONAL  HEADQUARTERS  OF  THE   SALVATION  ARMY, 

LONDON,  E.G. 
February  1917. 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

INTRODUCTION  .        .        «        .    xv 


CHAPTER  I 

PRELIMINARY  INVESTIGATIONS 

A  church  without  laity — The  sailor  and  the  spar:  superlative 
unselfishness— In  British  Army  camps— Salvation  Army 
huts — Human  attitudes:  natural  and  acquired — An  inter- 
view in  the  scullery — The  Adjutant's  statistics — Sausages 
and  pathos — A  Scotchman's  postponed  decision — The  sac- 
rifice and  its  sequel:  testimony  of  the  rescued  sailor  .  23 

CHAPTER  II 

HERO  AND   SAINT 

Soldiers  and  Salvationists:  the  link  of  sympathy — Affectionate 
cookery — A  subtle  attraction — Chris  Lovell — Sweethearts 
and  the  penitent-form — Serving  in  two  armies — The  love 
of  life  if.  the  power  of  compassion — A  deed  of  double 

glory — Chris's    radiant    death 33 

vii 


viii  CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  III 

FAITHFUL   FIGHTERS 

A  hero's  midnight  conversion — Kerbstone  devotions — Instruc- 
tive boxing-gloves — A  peace-loving  lad  as  a  fearless  fight- 
er— Another  glimpse  of  shipwrecked  Brum:  succouring  the 
screaming  boy — A  cloud  of  Salvationist  heroes — Godly 
men  v.  daredevils — The  faith  that  knows  no  fear — A 
soldier  lad  and  his  frivolous  mother — Bedside  prayers  in 
the  men's  quarters — Half-measures  resented — Why?  . 

CHAPTER  IV 

ARRIVAL  IN   FRANCE 

Civilian  khaki — Repressed  emotion  at  Victoria — Officers  and 
their  relatives — The  mother:  an  incident — Thoughts  on 
the  train — Innocent  hypocrites — The  smell  of  the  sea — An 
emotional  reaction — High  spirits  afloat — England  in  France 
— A  town's  tribulation — Red  Cross  work:  dramatic  night 
scene — Unloading  a  hospital  train — Smiles  from  a  Salva- 
tion Army  ambulance — Depressing  stretcher  cases— In- 
structive sitting  cases — Thrilling  fortitude  .... 

CHAPTER  V 

VISITING  THE   WOUNDED 

In  a  transformed  Casino— The  man  of  many  wounds:  a  smile 
framed  by  lint — Captors  of  the  Bluff — Irrepressible  in- 
valids— Map-making  on  a  bed  quilt — Heroes  in  their 


CONTENTS  ix 

PAGE 

teens— A  blushing  British  soldier— "We  young  chaps  are 
just  as  brave" — Cuddling  the  Bible:  a  story  left  untold — A 
man  without  hands — The  Salvationist  lass  and  the  cig- 
arette— Studies  in  gratitude — At  the  Canadian  hospital — 
Death-bed  rapture — Looking  into  a  mother's  eyes — Gasping 
and  chatting — A  letter  to  Aunty — Salvationist  sisters:  wel- 
come friends  and  messengers — Unselfish  crusaders  meet  .  74 


CHAPTER  VI 

FIRST  TASTE   OF  WARFARE 

A  personal  confession — Preliminary  excursions  from  G.H.Q. — 
Graduated  doses  of  danger — A  disappointing  hill — Shat- 
tered housefronts— Impressive  preparations:  maps,  binocu- 
lars, and  a  lunch-basket— The  fraternal  War  Correspon- 
dent— An  unaltered  countryside — Within  sight  and  sound 
of  gun-fire — Peace  and  War,  mixed — Shells  bursting  over- 
head: a  dainty  spectacle — Our  ascent  of  the  Fosse — Watch- 
ing an  air  fight — Attentions  from  a  German  battery — Re- 
treating with  the  lunch-basket — A  shower  of  bullets — 
Seeking  shelter — Water  tanka  or  gasometers?  .  .  •  84 

CHAPTER  VII 

AMID  STRAY  BULLETS 

A  cemetery  by  the  sea — Standing  amid  regiments  of  crosses — 
Five  coffins  and  some  singing  birds — Salvationists  and  the 
bereaved — Letters  of  passionate  gratitude — Graves  under 
fire — Smoking  debris  and  stoical  civilians — French  village 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

or  British  citadel? — The  old  man  and  his  garden — A  de- 
molished church — The  surviving  Calvary — An  astonished 
Colonel — The  mortuary — Tommy's  dinner — A  crimson 
stain — Musical  bullets — Hiding  from  a  German  airman — 
Inspecting  a  military  post — The  youthful  O.C. — His  damp 
dug-outs — Pathetic  fruit  trees — A  startling  British  bat- 
tery— "Playing  at  soldiers":  bright  memories — Personal 
sensations ,96 


CHAPTER  VIII 
JIMMY'S  OPPORTUNITY 

A  costermonger  and  his  comrades — "A  button  short" — Effect  of 
a  first  shell — In  bombarded  trenches — An  impromptu  re- 
ligious service — "God  bless  you,  Jimmy" — Prayer  and  its 
fruits — "Mumming"  a  hymn — Men  hungry,  but  not  for 
meat — Resumed  devotions — "Like  being  in  Heaven" — The 
absentee — An  unofficial  chaplain — In  the  rest  camp— A  re- 
vival of  bad  language — Jimmy's  venture — A  remarkable 
gathering — Thirty  converts — Nightly  meetings  of  growing 
influence — An  officer's  testimony — Jimmy  injured  by  liquid 
fire — His  new  appointment — Fish  and  chips  .  .  .no 

CHAPTER  IX 

HOLINESS   AND   HEROISM 

Attached  to  a  battalion — The  considerate  Adjutant — My  ser- 
vant— Taking  meals  with  the  subalterns — A  mess  joke — 
Story  of  an  irate  Major — Joseph's  testimony — A  Ramsgate 


CONTENTS  xi 

PAGE 

Salvationist — My  tent — Reading  in  bed — The  salient  at 
night — Memories  of  Tiberias — My  unsuccessful  petition — 
Transferred  to  another  regiment — A  friendly  Quarter- 
master— Listening  to  the  pipes — The  Gay  Gordons  and 
their  dead — Buttered  toast  from  the  Quartermaster-ser- 
geant— The  spiritual  experiences  of  Sergeant  Withers — 
Living  by  faith  under  fire — Obstructed  moonlight:  an  an- 
swer to  prayer — The  faithful  Sergeant's  splendid  bravery  120 


CHAPTER  X 

THE   BATTLE  OF   THE  BLUFF 

The  Quartermaster's  story — Seven  hours  of  din  and  slaugh- 
ter— Mothering  the  prisoners — A  Lieutenant's  experiences: 
held,  wounded,  crippled,  threatened,  and  cheerful — Con- 
cerning death:  fallacies  confuted  by  experience — Mrs. 
Booth  and  the  Empress  mourners — The  best-liked  man  of 
the  regiment — A  War  Cry  monopoly — Droll  adventure  of 
the  mascot — A  gunner's  eloquent  silence — The  Teetotal 
Division — No  use  for  rum  rations — The  Quartermaster 
and  the  Salvation  Army:  an  unexpected  tribute — "My  little 
red  jersey" 130 

CHAPTER  XI 

A  VISIT  TO  YPRES 

The  distraught-looking  lunatic  asylum — A  civic  nightmare — 
Arrested — Taken  before  the  authorities — Permission  to 
look  round — A  city  of  brand-new  ruins — Shells  prettily 


xii  CONTENTS 

PAGE 

bursting — Skeleton  walls  and  hillocks  of  debris — The  song 
of  the  birds — Inside  the  wrecked  cathedral — Unexploded 
shells — Looking  for  the  Cloth  Hall — A  tour  of  private 
houses — Pathetic  medley  of  domestic  articles — The  surviv- 
ing garden — Corporal  Clegg  and  the  wounded  bird — Con- 
fidences in  a  church — His  Salvationist  associations — Ypres 
by  moonlight — My  droll  predicament  .  .  .  .  .141 


CHAPTER  XII 

ADVENTURES   BY  MOONLIGHT 

At  Brigade  Headquarters — A  benign  General — His  hospitable 
offer — Out  in  the  mist  once  more — My  placid  escorts — 
Confidence  under  fire — The  workings  of  Divine  Justice — 
Mud,  rats,  and  bullets — Meeting  sleepy  Tommies — White 
crosses:  an  optical  illusion — The  sentry's  challenge — Ar- 
rival at  the  dug-outs — The  doctor's  tidings — A  subter- 
ranean surgery — Overtaking  wounded  men — The  field  hos- 
pital— Suspected  as  a  spy — An  astonished  surgeon  .  .153 


CHAPTER  XIII 

IN  THE  TRENCHES 

Two  typical  casualties — Invalids  bashfully  grinning — Their 
bullet  wounds — Comments  of  the  kindly  surgeon — What 
became  of  the  beef  tea — My  night  in  a  dug-out — Mistaken 
for  the  Colonel — A  terrifying  tail — Broken  slumbers — An 
appetising  breakfast — Setting  forth  with  the  Captain — War 


CONTENTS  xiii 

PAGE 

landscape — Wading  through  the  trenches — Our  men  under 
fire — The  dead  lad — Bodies  in  the  parapet — A  peep  at  the 
shattered  "International" — Thirty  yards  from  the  foe  .  163 


CHAPTER  XIV 

NO  MAN'S   LAND 

The  soothing  front  line — Peeping  over  the  parapet — Dead 
earth — Periscope  pictures — Significant  streaks  of  shadow — 
Tins  and  tatters — Military  scavengers — Sunshine  and  a 
skylark — Tommy's  comforters — What  the  birds  were  say- 
ing— German  trenching  tools — Other  interesting  relics — 
Waterproof  fire-lighters — Watching  an  aerial  battle — The 
stricken  plane — Back  in  the  open — Barred  by  falling 
shells — The  "burst"  described — An  inconvenient  alterna- 
tive   175 

CHAPTER  XV 

UNDER   SHELL   FIRE 

An  Easter  reminder — My  Yorkshire  guide:  typical  unselfish- 
ness— A  treat  for  stranded  aviators — Ypres  in  a  new  as- 
pect— Shell  holes  galore:  a  landscape  with  the  smallpox — 
Watching  a  frog — The  foundered  biplane — Projectiles  en 
route:  streaks  of  grating  noise — Bursting  shells — Our  nar- 
row escape — Waiting  at  the  roadside:  a  trying  experi- 
ence— The  deafening  British  battery — Mysterious  absence 
of  a  limber — Dodging  the  shells:  a  lad's  startling  manoeu- 
vre— Tranquil  Tommies — Our  tramp  along  the  road — Bad 
language:  an  exceptional  experience — Welcome  eggs  and 
chips 186 


xiv  CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  XVI 

SPIRITUAL  SUPREMACY 

PAGE 

War  Office  brotherliness— Colonel  Bate's  hospital— Effective 
treatment  of  war-worn  soldiers — The  registration  of 
British  graves — Testing  the  records — Pressed  flowers  in 
an  official  envelope— The  tenderness  of  militarism — An  in- 
terview at  G.H.Q. — The  General's  reproof — Adventures 
at  La  Bassee — Smiles  and  sniping — An  incident  in  a 
crater — Attached  to  a  Public  Schools  battalion — My  or- 
derly and  his  pathetic  experiences — A  Stepney  boy — Horse- 
play arrested  by  hymns — A  Cockney  climbing  the  Golden 
Stairs — ''I  know  that  His  arms  are  round  me"  .  .  199 


INTRODUCTION 


ON  the  outbreak  of  war — a  time  so  fruitful  in  false 
surmises  and  unfounded  misgivings — I  remember 
feeling  very  sorry  for  the  Salvation  Army. 

Hitherto  a  source  of  strength,  its  international 
character  seemed,  in  the  catastrophe  that  had  over- 
taken the  human  race,  a  source  of  weakness.  The 
Church  of  England,  like  each  of  the  Nonconform- 
ist churches,  operated  almost  entirely  within  the 
shelter  of  one  Empire,  and  wholly  within  the  sanc- 
tion of  one  patriotism.  But  the  Salvation  Army 
was  German  as  well  as  British,  French  and  Belgian 
as  well  as  Austrian;  it  belonged,  in  fact,  not  only  to 
every  belligerent  country,  but  to  the  neutral  ones 
as  well.  In  width  of  range  it  was  comparable  only 
with  the  Church  of  Rome,  but  (and  this  made  all 
the  difference)  its  cosmopolitan  character,  unlike 
that  of  the  Church  of  Rome,  had  no  legal  safe- 
guards, nor  were  its  headquarters  on  denationalised 
soil.  As  an  organism  having  the  heart  in  London 
and  arteries  radiating  thence  all  about  the  habitable 
globe,  the  Salvation  Army  seemed  peculiarly  at  the 
mercy  of  a  European  war;  and  in  imagination  I  saw 
several  of  the  chief  arteries  severed  and  the  organ- 
ism left  shrunken  and  enfeebled. 

It  was  the  easier  to  be  fearful  for  the  Army,  I 
think,  because  of  a  piteous  calamity  that  befell  it 

XV 


xvi  INTRODUCTION 

a  few  weeks  before,  when  a  large  company  of  Sal- 
vationists were  lost  with  the  s.s.  Empress  of  Ireland. 
They  had  been  journeying  to  the  Army's  jubilee 
celebration  in  London :  a  unique  congress  that  pros- 
pered exceedingly,  it  is  true,  as  a  demonstration  of 
the  extent  to  which  recruits  had  been  won  among 
all  races  of  the  world — white,  black,  brown,  yellow, 
and  red.  For  the  effort  involved  in  thus  focussing 
its  world-wide  forces,  the  Army  had  looked  for  a 
return — in  the  outpouring  of  newly  generated  zeal 
— when  the  delegates  should  have  gone  back  to  their 
various  national  spheres;  but  the  travellers  were 
scarcely  home  again  before  peace  on  earth  ended, 
and,  the  chief  energy  of  the  civilised  world  being 
now  directed  to  the  slaughtering  of  men,  the  pros- 
pect looked  black  for  a  body  that  aimed  at  saving 
them.  Nor  did  there  seem  merely  abstract  reasons 
for  pessimism.  While  threatening  to  decrease  the 
earning  power  of  many  citizens  and  increase  the  cost 
of  commodities,  the  war  demanded  for  its  purposes 
vast  present  and  prospective  revenues  compulsorily 
contributed  to  the  State,  and  for  its  consequences  an 
unprecedented  volume  of  voluntary  contributions; 
so  that  the  new  financial  experiences  of  the  nation, 
and  especially  the  enormous  drain  on  sources  of 
charity,  might  well  be  expected  to  react  injuriously 
on  organisations  which,  like  the  Salvation  Army,  de- 
pended solely  upon  free-will  offerings. 

But  those  forebodings  were  ill-founded;  indeed, 
it  is  scarcely  an  exaggeration  to  say  that  facts  have 
proved  the  direct  contrary  of  surmise.  Those  fore- 
bodings were  based  on  a  reasoning  that  lacked  faith, 
and,  consequently,  insight.  Reviewed  in  the  light 


INTRODUCTION  xvii 

of  developments,  they  are  seen  to  have  involved  that, 
in  the  overruling  of  this  planet's  affairs,  the  old  or- 
der was  reversed  and  Evil  had  gained  ascendency 
over  Good — an  impossibility. 

The  situation  was  this:  Besides  enormously  in- 
creasing the  sum  of  human  suffering  (and  conse- 
quently the  scope  for  human  sympathy)  the  war 
had  opened  new  fields  of  social  service,  without  clos- 
ing the  old  ones.  That  is  to  say,  if  there  were  di- 
minished facilities  for  the  Salvation  Army,  there 
was  increased  occasion  for  the  Salvation  Army. 
And  the  end — as  is  usual  in  the  domain  of  altruism 
— compelled  the  means;  the  case  being  covered  by 
that  divine  law  which  ensures  prosperity  for  good 
works  undertaken  with  unfaltering  faith. 

In  other  words,  if,  following  upon  the  outbreak 
of  war,  General  Booth  and  his  counsellors  had 
wrung  their  hands  and  exclaimed,  "Alas!  our  or- 
ganisation is  maimed  and  our  revenues  threatened, 
so  we  must  curtail  our  activities  and  refrain  from 
any  new  ones" — then,  most  assuredly,  would  events 
have  justified  their  fears;  but,  instead,  General 
Booth  and  his  counsellors  looked  calmly  into  the 
storm,  and,  perceiving  the  social  problems  it  had 
occasioned  (notably  those  associated  with  vast  con- 
gregations of  men  and  lads  cut  off  from  the  conso- 
lation and  safeguard  of  home  ties),  set  about  sup- 
plying solutions — with  what  success  this  little  book 
will  reveal. 

And  since  the  reader  may  already  be  generally 
aware  of  the  Salvation  Army's  new  work,  in  the 
spheres  both  of  warfare  and  of  war  preparation,  he 
may  regard  as  superfluous  the  foregoing  reflection 


xviii  INTRODUCTION 

of  early  misgivings  that  have  been  so  happily  fal- 
sified by  events.  But  it  is  fitting  that  the  author 
should  begin  this  narrative — a  narrative  of  adven- 
tures and  discoveries  made  among  two  armies  on 
a  double  battlefield — in  the  humble,  frank,  and  con- 
fessional spirit  in  which  he  proposes  to  continue  it. 

There  were  other  stages  of  his  investigations 
when  fact  proved  wholly  different  from  anticipation; 
nay,  these  pages  will  largely  record  the  disintegra- 
ting influence  of  experience  on  preconceived  ideas. 

Not,  however,  that  there  is  anything  exceptional 
in  the  war  having  upset  one's  opinions  about  the 
war.  And  if  criticism  and  prophecy  have  been  so 
frequently  at  fault  in  the  military  and  political 
spheres,  much  mental  uncertainty,  and  a  free  indul- 
gence in  hypothesis,  might  perhaps  reasonably  be 
allowed  to  one  who,  leaving  the  beaten  track,  sought 
to  study  war  in  its  psychological  and  spiritual — in 
other  words,  in  its  personal — aspect. 

War  to  me  (before  and  after  this  one  broke  out) 
was  a  frightful  enigma;  an  unthinkable  nightmare; 
a  horror  inconceivable.  It  frightened  my  imagina- 
tion and  baffled  my  mind.  Most  newspaper  articles 
and  all  history  books  seemed  to  suggest  that  national 
greatness  rested  on  a  basis  of  determination  and 
blows;  and  it  had  long  been  a  commonplace  of  pop- 
ular thought  that  the  liberties  we  enjoy — whether  to 
travel,  talk,  or  worship — were  purchased  by  the 
blood  of  our  ancestors.  Another  generally  asserted 
and  generally  accepted  tenet  was  that  war  brings 
out,  exercises,  and  indeed  depends  upon,  the  animal, 
or  brute,  side  of  man — the  uoriginal  Adam,"  as  it 
is  sometimes  called;  which  seemed  so  reasonable  a 


INTRODUCTION  xix 

statement  that  there  has  been  a  tendency  to  think 
of  one's  ancestors  as,  in  the  main,  folks  of  somewhat 
coarse  fibre.  Nay,  if  truth  be  told,  have  not  some  of 
us  been  apt  to  feel,  in  a  vague  sort  of  way,  that  it 
was  a  good  thing  our  ancestors  were  so  rough  and 
pugnacious,  as  otherwise  we  could  not  be  so  refined 
and  peaceful! 

Then  came  the  bewildering  fact  that  our  modern, 
gentle-nurtured,  peaceful  lads,  born  to  civilian  tra- 
ditions, with  no  drop  of  military  blood  in  their  effec- 
tive ancestry,  were  going  forth  by  the  million,  with 
an  unselfishness  that  seemed  almost  divine,  to  en- 
gage in  the  business  that  seemed  wholly  fiendish. 
Heretofore  on  the  conscience  of  each  of  those  lads 
the  words  had  been  written,  "Thou  shalt  not  kill"; 
now  the  inner  mandate  ran,  "Thou  shalt  kill."  Per- 
sons  who  thought  continuously  about  it  were  in  dan- 
ger of  thinking  themselves  into  a  state  of  insanity. 
There  seemed  no  way  of  getting  back  to  the  happy 
tranquillity  of  former  days  except  through  the  de- 
feat and  slaughter  of  legions  of  our  fellow-creatures 
— a  culmination  in  itself  so  contrary  to  the  ideal  of 
happy  tranquillity  that  one's  intelligence  went  sick 
and  reeling  at  the  bare  thought  of  it. 

For  some  time  it  was  as  though  dark  curtains  had 
fallen  around  one's  life;  no  theory  appeared  to  fit 
with  the  appalling  facts;  the  condition  of  the  world 
had  become  one  vast  heart-breaking  muddle  and 
puzzle.  In  the  phrase  just  used,  Evil  appeared  to 
have  assumed  ascendancy  over  Good. 

And  since  that  attitude  of  mine  may  well  be 
deemed,  by  persons  of  steadier  faith,  to  have  been 
an  unwarranted  lapse  towards  infidelity,  perhaps  it 


xx  INTKODUCTION 

may  be  permissible  to  mention,  in  a  sort  of  aside, 
that,  having  retained  from  my  teens  a  conviction 
that  all  war  was  unnecessary  and  wrong,  and  hav- 
ing been  wont  to  style  myself  a  Peace-at-any-price 
man,  I  now  confronted  war  with  no  personal  phi- 
losophy about  it,  my  negative  views  on  the  subject 
proving  wholly  irrelevant  to  the  accomplished  fact. 

Light  sometimes  reaches  the  human  mind  through 
strange  little  chinks.  Try  not  to  smile  when  I  men- 
tion, as  identified  with  one  step  in  my  progress  to- 
wards a  composed  view,  the  surprise  I  felt,  in  the 
spring  of  1915,  on  noting  that  primroses  and  violets 
were  blooming  in  our  woodlands  as  gladly  as  ever. 
A  further  definite  advance  came  when  I  first  reread 
the  following  words  in  the  light  of  contemporary 
events:  "And  when  ye  shall  hear  of  wars  and 
rumours  of  wars,  be  ye  not  troubled:  for  such  things 
must  needs  be."  That  came  like  a  message  of  com- 
fort from  Heaven;  nay,  it  came  as  a  message  of 
comfort  from  heaven.  "Be  ye  not  troubled."  Very 
well;  then  I  need  not,  must  not,  would  not,  be  any 
longer  troubled  at  the  thought  of  what  was  happen- 
ing. Wars — all  wars — this  war  "must  needs  be." 

Then  came  a  strong  desire  for  personal  contact 
with  the  thing  which,  in  ceasing  to  be  a  nightmare 
to  the  imagination,  had  assumed  deeper  interest  as 
a  problem — nay,  as  a  hundred  and  one  problems — 
for  the  mind. 

What  did  it  feel  like  to  be  under  fire?  How 
would  a  physical  coward  (and  the  writer  had  reason 
to  accept  himself  in  that  category)  get  on  when 
the  bullets  are  flying  and  the  bayonets  flashing? 
How  did  war  affect  gentle,  unassuming  lads  who 


INTRODUCTION  xxi 

had  been  brought  up  in  a  Sunday-school  atmosphere? 
Were  they  put  hopelessly  to  shame  by  rough  youths 
addicted  to  fisticuffs  and  horseplay?  Of  what  ef- 
fect upon  our  soldiers  was  the  sight  of  death  oc- 
curring around  them  and  the  knowledge  that  death 
might  at  any  moment  be  their  portion?  Was  the 
nearness  of  that  mortal  ending  equivalent  in  their 
thoughts  to  the  nearness  of  God  and  eternity? 

In  particular  I  asked  myself  that  last  question, 
and  could  not  so  much  as  make  an  assured  guess 
at  the  answer.  But  from  the  mere  suggestion  of 
a  possibility  I  seemed  moving  towards  a  truer  con- 
ception of  war;  and  the  personal  desire  to  be  out 
among  the  fighters  and  the  firing,  where  conjecture 
could  be  put  to  the  proof,  thenceforward  grew 
stronger  day  by  day. 

But,  being  a  person  above  military  age,  how  could 
I  get  to  the  Front?  Nor,  by  the  way,  was  it 
enough  merely  to  get  there.  How,  then,  could  I 
reach  the  Front  with  such  ample  facilities  for  mov- 
ing about,  and  such  full  opportunities  for  frank  and 
friendly  intercourse  with  our  lads,  as  would  enable 
me  to  know  what  were  the  inner  personal  experi- 
ences ? 

Then  came  the  illuminating  thought:  we  had 
two  armies  in  the  field — the  British  Army  and  the 
Salvation  Army;  and  how  better  could  one  study 
the  spiritual  condition  of  the  former  than  from 
vantage  points  that  the  work  of  the  latter  would  af- 
ford? Other  Christian  organisations  were  engaged 
among  our  soldiers,  but  I  realised  that,  because  of 
the  simple,  thorough-going,  uncompromising,  seven- 
days-a-week  character  of  its  Christianity,  the  Salva- 


xxii  INTRODUCTION 

tion  Army,  through  its  corporate  and  individual  ac- 
tivities in  the  war  arena,  would  most  surely  intro- 
duce me  to  the  knowledge  I  sought. 

It  only  remains  to  say  that  General  Booth  most 
kindly  gave  every  opportunity,  both  in  this  country 
and  in  France,  for  an  intimate  insight  into  the  work 
his  Army  is  doing;  while  the  Imperial  Government, 
represented  more  particularly  by  the  War  Office, 
rendered  unrestricted  assistance  to  the  inquirer,  not 
merely  with  facilities  for  visiting  places  of  interest 
in  the  zone  of  the  British  Army,  but  by  attaching  him 
to  a  succession  of  battalions  in  the  firing  line,  and 
allowing  him  full  access  to  the  trenches. 


SOULS  IN  KHAKI 

CHAPTER  I 

PRELIMINARY  INVESTIGATIONS 

A  church  without  laity — The  sailor  and  the  spar:  superlative  un- 
selfishness— In  British  Array  camps — Salvation  Array  huts — 
Human  attitudes:  natural  and  acquired — An  interview  in  the 
scullery — The  Adjutant's  statistics — Sausages  and  pathos — A 
Scotchman's  postponed  decision — The  sacrifice  and  its  sequel: 
testimony  of  the  rescued  sailor. 

OCCASIONALLY,  of  course,  one  meets  Salvationists 
who  are  not  members  of  the  Salvation  Army;  but, 
speaking  broadly,  what  distinguishes  General  Booth's 
organisation  from  other  parts  of  Christ's  Church  is 
the  belief  that  religion,  instead  of  being  merely  a 
matter  for  formal  occasions  and  private  meditation, 
is  for  every-day  use  and  avowal.  Thus  it  comes 
about  that  the  Salvation  Army  is  the  one  church 
without  any  laity,  all  its  members  being  ministers, 
who  preach  their  sermons  not  only  in  words,  but 
in  the  way  they  live — and  die. 

The  War  Cry  gives  typical  instances  of  Salva- 
tionist happenings,  to  one  of  which  my  attention 
was  recalled  when,  as  a  preliminary  to  crossing  the 
Channel,  I  was  visiting  Salvation  Army  huts  in 
British  Army  camps  of  southern  England. 

23 


24  SOULS  IN  KHAKI 

It  seemf>  that,  after  H.M.S.  Cressy,  Hogue,  and 
Aboukir  had  been  tjrpcdoed,  two  exhausted  sailors, 
swimming .  abo-.ir  in  the  water,;  at  last  came  upon  a 
spar  which,  while  sufficiently  buoyant  to  keep 
either  of  them  afloat,  sank  under  the  combined 
weight  of  both,  so  that  they  were  constrained  to 
take  alternate  spells  of  buffeting  with  the  heavy 
swell  and  of  clinging  to  the  piece  of  wood — a  process 
that  could  not  be  indefinitely  prolonged,  and  that 
was  terminated  when  one,  who  was  a  Salvationist, 
said  "Good-bye,  mate;  death  means  life  to  me; 
but  you  are  not  converted,  so  keep  hold  and  save 
yourself" — saying  which  he  suffered  himself  to  be 
carried  away,  inevitably  to  drown;  and  afterwards 
the  other  man,  who  survived  and  was  rescued,  re- 
ported at  a  Salvationist  meeting  the  act  of  self-sac- 
rifice to  which  he  owed  his  life. 

That  beautiful  abstract  fact,  when  brought  a 
second  time  to  my  notice,  prompted  a  desire  to  see 
it  in  a  framework  of  human  nature — in  other 
words,  to  find  out  something  more  about  the 
anonymous  hero  who  gave  the  highest  proof  of  a 
spirit  that  was  also  revealed  in  the  Salvation  Army 
huts  I  was  visiting.  For  those  huts  were  adminis- 
tered in  a  spirit  of  brotherly  love,  and  brotherly  love 
reaches  its  golden  zenith  when  one  man  gives  his 
life  for  another. 

A  large  wooden  hall  fitted  as  a  shop  and  refresh- 
ment counter  at  one  end,  and  having  nearly  all  the 
rest  of  the  space  occupied  by  chairs  and  little  trestle 
tables,  methodically  arranged  with  intervening  gang- 
ways— such  is  the  interior  of  a  Salvation  Army  hut, 
which  probably  also  contains  a  piano,  a  picture  or 


PRELIMINARY  INVESTIGATIONS         25 

two,  and  a  placard  giving  the  times  of  trains  or  mo- 
tor 'buses.  Yellow  deal  being  yellow  deal,  there  is 
little  to  distinguish  it  from  the  thousand  and  one 
other  huts  of  the  camp — officers'  quarters,  men's 
quarters,  messes,  canteens,  stores,  and  recreation 
rooms.  Some  of  those  other  huts  you  might  find 
full  of  men  in  khaki,  just  as  you  are  almost  sure 
to  find  the  Salvation  Army  hut  full  of  men  in  khaki. 
But  it  is  different  from  them,  because  the  person 
who  serves  afr  the  counter,  and  the  person  who  cooks 
the  eggs  and  bacon,  and  the  person  who  clears  the 
tables  and  does  the  washing-up,  is — well,  because 
he  or  she  is  moved  by  the  same  motive  as  the  man 
who  relinquished  his  share  of  the  spar. 

Most  of  us,  as  is  only  natural,  are  wont  to  strive 
with  a  main  eye  to  the  worldly  advantage  of  our- 
selves and  of  our  families,  modern  existence  being 
accepted  as  a  competitive  struggle — a  sort  of  game 
of  grab — for  fame,  fortune,  and  felicity;  it  being 
currently  reported,  not  only  that  self-preservation 
is  the  first  law  of  nature,  but  that  if  a  man  does  not 
take  his  own  part  no  one  else  will.  The  faith  of 
the  Salvationist  contradicts  those  propositions — and 
he  acts  accordingly,  with  the  result  that  his  experi- 
ence contradicts  them  also. 

As  for  felicity,  my  visits  to  those  huts  introduced 
me  to  some  notable  examples  of  that  state  of  be- 
ing. There  were,  for  instance,  Adjutant  and  Mrs. 
M.,  whom  I  interviewed  in  the  wash-house,  that 
being  the  only  place  where  a  visitor  could  occupy 
a  little  standing  room  without  interrupting  business. 
For,  as  usual,  there  were  about  a  hundred  Tom- 
mies in  the  hut,  so  a  good  deal  of  cooking  and  serv- 


26  SOULS  IN  KHAKI 

ing  was  going  on.  The  Salvationist  couple  were  as- 
sisted by  a  Salvationist  girl  and  a  Salvationist  lad, 
which  gave  the  equivalent  of  a  staff  of  eight  un- 
der normal  commercial  conditions,  one  person  who 
labours  for  love  being  equal  to  two  who  merely  work 
for  wages.  What  with  selling  picture  postcards, 
frying  kippers,  asking  a  man  about  his  invalid  wife, 
opening  tins  of  pineapple  and  helping  a  poor  scholar 
to  write  to  his  sweetheart,  there  was  a  good  deal 
doing  on  our  side  of  the  counter;  and  my  interview 
with  Adjutant  and  Mrs.  M.  was  consequently  jerky 
— two  minutes  with  him,  half  a  minute  with  her, 
five  minutes  alone  with  the  copper. 

"I  tell  you,"  cried  the  enthusiastic  Adjutant,  "I'd 
do  anything  for  the  boys — they're  so  splendid.  Just 
to  show  you — our  regular  hours  are  from  half-past 
six  in  the  morning  to  half-past  seven  at  night — 
and  they  keep  us  pretty  busy,  too,  all  the  time,  bless 
'em;  but  often  enough  some  will  come  before  the 
proper  time  or  after  we're  shut.  Parties  reach  camp 
at  night,  you  see — and  they're  very  likely  hungry 
after  their  march,  poor  chaps.  Who  could  turn  'em 
away,  I'd  like  to  know!  Same  as  night  before  last 
there  was  a  knock  just  as  I'd  finished  making  up  my 
books  and  was  about  to  turn  in.  One  of  our  regular 
customers  had  brought  round  a  few  tired  lads  out 
of  a  lot  that  had  just  come  in;  'and  would  I  mind/ 
he  said,  'just  to  cook  a  few  more  sausages  and  give 
'em  a  drop  of  tea.'  Mind!  of  course  not  And 
they  must  have  passed  the  word  back,  for  I'd  cooked 
20  Ibs.  of  sausages  before  I  was  through — 20  Ibs. 
after  closing  time,  mind!  That  day  I  had  already 
cooked  at  least " 


PRELIMINARY  INVESTIGATIONS         27 

But  here  his  wife  arrived  breathlessly  to  report 
that  eight  bacon  and  eggs  were  in  a  hurry  as  they 
must  get  back  to  parade;  and  away  dashed  the 
Adjutant  to  see  to  it. 

"Ah !  youVe  no  idea  what  fine  boys  we  get  here," 
the  Adjutant's  wife  lingered  to  tell  me;  "and  they're 
so  grateful  when  one  tries  to  help  them,  if  it's  only 
with  a  word  of  sympathy  or  encouragement.  Be- 
ing away  from  home,  often  for  the  first  time,  they 
miss  their  own  women  folk,  and  they  can  see  1 
just  love  to  mother  them.  Then  of  course  there's 
the  uniform.  It's  a  great  privilege  to  wear  a  uni- 
form that  everybody  seems  to  have  confidence  in 
and  look  up  to.  They  do  feel  the  seriousness  of 
what  lies  before  them;  and  when  they  speak  about 
the  prayers  they  may  for  years  have  forgotten  to  say, 
and  the  bad  ways  they  may  have  fallen  into,  why 
then  I  can't  keep  the  tears  back  (my  husband  says 
it's  so  silly  of  me  to  be  always  crying  over  them — 
or  else  laughing!) — but  it  makes  one  more  and 
more  eager  in  pointing  to  the  path  of  peace  and 
begging  those  dear  souls  to  arm  themselves  against 
all  dangers  by  loving  the  Saviour  who  so  loves  them. 
The  other  day " 

But  the  Salvationist  lass  popped  her  head  in  to 
report  a  crowd  at  the  counter;  and  I  found  myself 
with  an  opportunity  to  count  the  milk  churns  and 
packing-cases  crowded  about  the  copper. 

Presently  the  Adjutant  rushed  in  to  remark: 

"Last  week  we  sold  £14  145.  S^id.  worth  of 
sausages.  I've  just  had  a  look  at  my  bills  to  see. 
And  groceries,  including  bacon,  come  to  over  £15. 
But  that's  ordinary,  that  is.  Why,  the  day  before 


28  SOULS  IN  KHAKI 

Christmas  we  cooked  245  breakfasts!  How  would 
you  like  to  do  the  washing-up  for — — 

"Six  sausages  and  two  eggs  and  bacon!"  an- 
nounced his  wife,  his  disappearance  being  practically 
simultaneous  with  her  reappearance. 

"There's  one  dear  lad  I  wish  you  could  see,'1 
she  exclaimed — "my  Norfolk  boy,  I  call  him.  You 
wouldn't  believe  how  unhappy  he  looked  when  he 
first  came  here.  Life  was  black  and  hopeless  for 
him,  poor  lad.  But  now  he's  one  of  us,  and  so  proud 
of  his  jersey,  and  a  really  beautiful  influence  among 
his  comrades — I  know  that,  because  several  have 
told  me.  Being  a  driver,  you  see,  he's  pretty  well 
a  fixture  here;  not  like  the  others — always  moving 

on.  That's  the  worst  part "  and  she  paused, 

the  animation  dying  out  of  her  face. 

"You  see  a  lad  on  the  brink  of  decision,"  con- 
tinued the  Adjutant's  wife,  "and  needing  only  a  little 
more  help  and  encouragement,  when  suddenly  he 
moves  on,  probably  to  the  Front,  and  you  never 
see  him  again.  There  was  one  tall  Scotchman — 
'Sandy/  we  called  him — who  had  much  to  conquer 
in  his  life,  but  he  had  been  deeply  touched,  and 
I  had  seen  the  tears  in  his  eyes.  He  seemed,  in 
fact,  on  the  point  of  kneeling  at  the  Master's  feet, 
and  seeking  the  grace  and  guidance  that  never  fails. 
One  evening  he  got  so  far  as  to  falter,  'Not  to-night, 
but  to-morrow — I  think  I  will  to-morrow.'  But 
when  the  next  day  came  his  regiment  was  under 
orders  to  entrain  that  afternoon.  It  made  us  tre- 
mendously busy,  and  the  hut  was  crowded  with 
men,  mostly  wanting  food.  They  kept  us  as  busy 
as  bees;  and  while  I  was  at  the  counter  I  caught 


PRELIMINARY  INVESTIGATIONS          29 

sight  of  'Sandy/  I  saw  him  twice,  and  his  expres- 
sion seemed  to  say  he  had  come  intending  at  last 
to  make  the  decision.  He  wanted  me  to  go  to  him 
— I  could  see  that,  and  there  seemed  such  a  plead- 
ing and  disappointed  look  on  his  face.  I  tried  to 
go  across,  and  kept  hoping  I  should  be  able  to; 
but  the  work  at  the  counter  was  absolutely  unceas- 
ing, and  I  couldn't  get  away.  Presently  'Sandy'  sat 
down  at  the  piano — he  was  quite  a  fair  player — and 
above  the  clatter,  I  caught  a  few  bars  of  'Take 
time  to  be  holy.'  Thinking  about  it  since,  I  can't 
help  feeling  the  reproach  that  may  have  been  in- 
tended." 

And,  wrestling  with  emotion,  she  pressed  a  hand 
against  her  wet  eyes. 

"You  see,"  came  the  piteous  explanation,  "there 
I  was  waiting  on  a  lot  of  high-spirited  lads  who 
only  wanted  chocolate  and  cake  and  things  like  that, 
and  poor  'Sandy'  may  well  have  thought  me  ut- 
terly neglectful  of  him,  whose  need  was  so  much 
higher.  Such  a  number  of  these  dear  men  and 
lads  pass  through  one's  life  that  it  is  impossible  to 
know  them  by  their  names.  In  this  case  'Sandy' 
was  the  only  name  I  knew,  and  so  it  has  been  im- 
possible to  write  to  him.  Still" — and  the  smiles 
came  out  again — "besides  the  failures  and  disap- 
pointments, one  is  permitted  to  see  some  beautiful 
results.  For  instance,  there  was  a  shy  little 
R.A.M.C.  boy,  whom  I  discovered  one  day " 

But  her  husband  arrived  post  haste  to  report  that 
more  sliced  cake  was  urgently  needed;  which  lost 
me  further  details  about  the  shy  boy,  but  gained 
me  the  information  that,  on  a  recent  Wednesday, 


30  SOULS  IN  KHAKI 

the  Adjutant  used  1 1  Ibs.  of  tea  in  filling  goodness 
knows  how  many  soldiers*  quart  bottles  with  the 
evening  beverage,  nicely  milked  and  sugared,  at  \d. 
a  time. 

And  so  the  spasmodic  interview  ran  on,  the  theme 
alternating  strangely  between  sausages  and  souls, 
but  the  same  spirit  prevailing  throughout. 

Thinking  about  that  spirit,  I  tried,  during  my 
second  interlude  with  the  copper,  to  associate  what 
I  had  just  seen  and  heard  with  an  imaginary  re- 
freshment place  established  on  a  purely  commercial 
basis.  It  was  difficult  to  picture  the  salaried  man- 
ager enthusiastic  over  the  hundreds  of  meals  he 
had  to  prepare  out  of  business  hours;  his  eyes 
brightly  sparkling  because,  following  upon  a  day 
without  leisure,  he  was  bereft  of  some  hours  of 
sleep  by  an  unexpected  call  on  his  services.  My 
imagination  also  rather  broke  down  in  conceiving 
the  manager's  wife  openly  to  rejoice  because  she  was 
fairly  run  off  her  feet,  morning,  noon,  and  night,  and 
furtively  to  shed  tears  because,  during  a  period 
when  the  pressure  of  work  put  an  extra  strain  on 
her  energy,  she  had  not  found  it  possible  to  do 
more  than  she  had  done.  Nor  did  I  have  much  suc- 
cess in  picturing  the  two  assistants,  instead  of  be- 
ing impatient  for  recreation  and  the  cinema,  smil- 
ing and  singing  snatches  of  songs  (like  the  Salva- 
tion lad  and  lass  were  doing)  as  they  put  more  zest 
into  their  work  than  most  young  people  put  into 
their  play. 

Those  sprightly  toilers  in  the  Salvation  Army 
huts  had  all,  no  doubt,  been  born  with  the  natural 
tendency  to  live  for  themselves.  But  they  had  turned 


PRELIMINARY  INVESTIGATIONS          31 

right-about-face,  and  were  now  living  for  others — 
an  impersonal  mode  of  existence,  by  the  by,  that 
seemed  to  cause  them  an  enduring  glow  of  happi- 
ness. I  was  the  more  interested  in  these  manifesta- 
tions of  the  spirit  of  unselfishness  because  they 
seemed  so  clearly  to  bear — though  in  what  way  and 
degree  did  not  yet  appear — on  those  human  prob- 
lems of  warfare  which  I  had  set  out  to  try  and 
solve. 

Thus  my  desire  grew  for  further  information 
about  the  shipwrecked  sailor  who  died  so  eloquent 
and  graphic  a  death — further  information  to  which, 
as  it  happened,  my  sausage-cooking  friend  pointed 
the  way.  He  referred  me  to  a  Salvationist  officer 
at  Folkestone,  at  whose  suggestion  I  waited  on  a 
Salvationist  officer  at  Canterbury,  by  whom  my 
steps  were  directed  to  a  Salvationist  officer  at 
Sittingbourne — to  wit,  Adjutant  Pickering,  who 
proved  to  have  valuable  information  to  impart.  For 
the  beautiful  incident  first  came  to  light  in  a  neigh- 
bouring town  during  her  command  there. 

"One  Sunday  evening  in  our  hall  at  Sheerness," 
she  explained,  "there  were  seven  or  eight  recent 
converts — Navy  men — and  sitting  among  them  was 
a  sailor  named  Peter  Ross.  I  didn't  know  his  name 
at  the  time,  but  I  remembered  seeing  him  the  night 
before,  when  he  followed  from  our  open-air  meeting 
to  the  hall.  I  called  for  personal  testimonies,  and 
one  of  the  men  who  got  up  was  Peter  Ross.  He 
said  he  had  never  thought  about  God  in  the  past, 
nor  had  his  people,  but  he  wanted  to  give  his  heart 
to  God  now  because  of  something  that  had  hap- 
pened to  him.  He  went  on  to  tell  us  (I  can't  re- 


32  SOULS  IN  KHAKI 

member  the  words — only  the  sense)  that  he  had 
been  on  H.M.S.  Aboukir  when  she  was  torpedoed, 
and  that  after  he  had  been  swimming  about  in  the 
water  for  some  time  he  came  across  a  shipmate 
named  Brumpton,  who  was  a  Salvationist.  When 
feeling  rather  exhausted,  they  found  a  spar,  which 
could  keep  one  of  them  afloat  but  not  both  together, 
as  it  wasn't  large  enough.  So  after  a  bit  Brumpton 
wished  him  Good-bye,  and  said,  'Death  means  life 
to  me,  but  it'll  be  death  for  you  if  you  go  down 
without  being  converted;  so  you  hold  on  and  save 
yourself.'  Ross  said  it  had  made  a  great  impres- 
sion on  him,  and  he  wanted  his  life  to  be  different. 
Afterwards  he  told  me  how  sorry  he  was  that  he 
hadn't  written  to  his  people  for  five  years,  and  he 
gave  me  his  sisters'  address.  I  wrote  and  told  them 
their  brother  had  announced  his  conversion  in  our 
hall,  and  they  sent  me  a  very  nice  letter  in  reply, 
saying  how  glad  they  were." 

So  now  I  knew  the  unselfish  sailor's  name;  and 
Adjutant  Pickering  said  she  believed  his  family  lived 
at  Southampton. 


CHAPTER  II 

HERO  AND   SAINT 

Soldiers  and  Salvationists:  the  link  of  sympathy — Affectionate  cook- 
ery— A  subtle  attraction — Chris  Lovell — Sweethearts  and  the 
penitent  form — Serving  in  two  Armies — The  love  of  life  v.  the 
power  of  compassion — A  deed  of  double  glory — Chris's  radiant 
death. 

ONE  impression  deepened  with  each  further  visit 
to  a  Salvation  Army  hut  in  a  British  Army  camp. 
I  refer  to  my  realisation  of  a  unique  quality  in  the 
relations  existing  between  General  Booth's  people 
and  our  soldiers. 

Everybody  being  fond  of  Tommy,  and  the  Sal- 
vationist being  fond  of  everybody,  it  was  not  at 
first  easy  to  recognise  a  special  warmth  in  words  and 
smiles  exchanged  in  the  Army  huts — a  certain  bright 
note  of  brotherliness  on  the  part  of  those  serving, 
and  a  certain  reverent  note  of  gratitude  on  the  part 
of  those  served. 

But  the  phenomenon,  when  once  recognised,  was 
easy  to  interpret. 

Think  for  a  moment  about  those  camps.  They 
were  huge  assemblies  of  men  and  lads  who,  at  the 
age  of  early  maturity — when  pleasures  cast  their 
strongest  spell  and  life  is  full  of  roses — had  volun- 
tarily abandoned  all  the  joys  that  the  physical  world 

33 


34  SOULS  IN  KHAKI 

could  offer  them — had  withdrawn  from  home,  fam- 
ily, occupation,  ease,  and  security — to  safeguard  the 
lives  and  liberties  of  others.  Each  of  those  brown- 
skinned  boys,  with  his  careless  laugh  and  healthy 
grin,  had  preferred  to  face  danger,  pain,  and  sud- 
den death  rather  than  suffer  the  free  peoples  of 
Europe  to  be  dominated  by  military  oppression. 
In  a  word,  each  of  those  unconscripted  soldiers  was 
a  figure  of  excellent  unselfishness,  and  as  such  held 
a  passport  to  the  hearts  of  all  Salvationists,  who, 
so  to  speak,  are  in  the  same  line  of  business. 

And  here  we  read  the  secret  of  that  bright  note 
of  brotherliness  to  which  I  have  referred.  The 
Salvationist's  accustomed  daily  tasks  lie  largely 
among  the  fallen,  the  criminal,  the  suffering,  and 
the  wretched,  whom  he  or  she  succours  in  a  spirit 
of  compassionate  love.  But  the  Salvationist  waited 
on  our  Tommies — our  glorious  Tommies! — in  a 
spirit  of  loving  admiration. 

The  individuals  previously  mentioned  were  both 
actual  and  representative.  I  visited  only  about  a 
dozen  Salvation  Army  huts  (out  of  hundreds  exist- 
ing in  military  camps  and  munition  areas  scattered 
throughout  the  United  Kingdom),  but  I  met  several 
Adjutant  M.'s  and  several  Mrs.  Adjutant  M.'s. 
Not,  mind  you,  that  every  kitchen  gave  off  a  pre- 
vailing aroma  of  sausages.  The  culinary  fame  of 
some  huts  was  identified  more  particularly  with  fried 
bacon,  or  even  fried  fish. 

And  here,  perhaps,  I  may  mention  one  enthusi- 
astic Salvationist  matron  whom  I  found  cooking 
large  brownish  new-laid  eggs  in  a  huge  stewing-pan, 
400  at  a  time.  Watch  in  hand,  she  was  safeguard- 


HERO  AND  SAINT  35 

ing  the  respective  rights  of  lightly-boiled,  medium, 
and  hard-boiled  preferences;  her  eager  pre-occupa- 
tion  being  characteristic  of  Salvation  Army  determi- 
nation to  give  the  brave  boys,  not  only  honest  value 
for  money  in  the  quality  of  all  food  supplied  to 
them,  but  an  attempted  equality  with  mother  in  the 
way  it  was  cooked  and  served.  The  large  Salva- 
tion Army  cups  of  tea  for  a  penny  formed  an  in- 
structive contrast  with  the  smaller  cups  supplied  in 
London  tea-shops  for  twopence  halfpenny;  the  more 
so  as  the  Salvation  Army  hut  was  under  an  obliga- 
tion to  pay  its  way. 

With  nothing  done  mechanically  as  a  mere  mat- 
ter of  routine,  and  with  their  working  day  includ- 
ing all  but  hours  of  sleep,  several  Salvationists  whom 
I  visited  were,  naturally  enough,  approaching  the 
limit  of  their  strength.  Tribulation  sometimes  took 
other  forms.  One  captain  had  lost  his  voice  be- 
cause, after  conducting  services  in  the  crowded  build- 
ing, he  had  been  compelled  to  spend  an  hour  or  so 
on  the  roof,  during  a  storm  of  wind  and  rain,  in 
closing  avenues  for  the  entry  of  the  weather.  At 
another  hut  I  found  a  married  couple  who  had 
persisted  bravely  with  their  multifarious  duties  while 
for  five  months  their  only  child  hovered  between 
life  and  death. 

But  I  came  to  the  conclusion,  after  talking  with 
many  soldiers  inside  and  outside  the  huts,  that 
Tommy  was  drawn  to  the  Salvationists,  not  merely 
or  mainly  because  they  served  him  with  such  ef- 
ficiency or  devotion,  nor  because  of  opportunities 
their  huts  supplied  for  writing,  reading,  and  music, 
but  because  Salvationists  were  on  the  side  of  truth, 


36  SOULS  IN  KHAKI 

wisdom,  and  the  angels,  and  because  of  their  visible 
character  as  unsanctimonious  saints. 

Not  that  Tommy  gave  me  that  information  in 
those  words.  "Oh,  you  see,"  he  would  say,  "we 
like  to  go  in  there" — pointing  to  a  hut  bearing  the 
familiar  shield — "because  the  Salvation  Army  are 
— well"  (lowering  his  voice  to  an  inflection  of  gen- 
tleness), "because  they  are  different  from  other  peo- 
ple, aren't  they?"  Pressed  to  be  more  precise,  he 
would  at  first  wrestle  with  a  condition  of  tongue- 
tied  embarrassment.  But  gradually  I  groped  my 
way  to  a  knowledge  of  how  the  case  stood — a  knowl- 
edge which,  in  view  of  the  angle  at  which  I  pro- 
posed to  study  the  war,  had  a  special  interest  for 
me.  For  was  it  not  a  reasonable  deduction  that 
the  same  lads,  in  their  civil  characters  during  peace- 
ful times,  would  have  been  less  open  to  the  attrac- 
tion of  religion? 

And  so  my  investigations  received  a  new  stmulus, 
and  (I  being  now  come  to  a  camp  not  far  from 
Southampton)  they  took  the  form  of  seeking  to 
hear  of  somebody  who  had  known  Brumpton  in- 
timately. 

It  seemed,  however,  that  his  acquaintances  must 
be  looked  for  in  Portsmouth  rather  than  Southamp- 
ton; though  an  incidental  outcome  of  my  inquiries 
caused  me  in  the  first  place  to  visit  the  latter  town. 

At  the  hut  in  question  was  a  sunny-hearted  and 
sunny-faced  Salvationist  lad  who,  after  working  all 
day  at  an  office  to  support  his  mother  and  little 
brother,  devoted  leisure  evening  hours  to  the  service 
of  the  soldiers.  He  was,  in  fact,  one  of  those  lads 
whose  appearance  suggests  that  the  guardian  angel 


HERO  AND  SAINT  37 

has  overstayed  the  years  of  childhood — perhaps  be- 
cause not  driven  away  by  ribald  talk  and  the  reek 
of  cheap  cigarettes. 

"How  splendid!"  he  exclaimed,  when  I  told  him 
how  Brumpton  died.  "I  only  wish  I  could  help 
you  to  find  his  friends."  Then,  after  a  pause,  he 
added:  "I  wonder  if  you  would  be  interested  to 
learn  about  Chris  Lovell,  a  Southampton  boy,  whose 
case  was  rather  like  Brumpton's,  except  that  Chris 
was  in  the  Army  and  he  died  at  the  front.  Miss 
Agnes  S.  in  the  Southampton  Corps  would  give  you 
the  details.  She  was  engaged  to  Chris." 

A  similar  case !  This  was  tantalising.  I  resolved 
to  find  out  (for  the  lad's  testimony  on  such  a  point 
would  probably  be  sound)  how  the  naval  Salva- 
tionist's self-sacrifice  at  sea  was  duplicated,  in  spirit, 
by  the  military  Salvationist's  self-sacrifice  on  land. 

And  so  it  came  about  that,  on  reaching  Southamp- 
ton, I  sought  out  Miss  Agnes  S.,  who — her  eyes 
shining  with  pride  and  tears — told  me  about  Chris. 

And  certainly  the  case  came  pat  as  an  answer 
to  a  question  which,  as  we  have  seen,  was  in- 
terwoven with  the  motive  for  this  book.  What 
spiritual  experiences  awaited  our  bright-eyed  soldier 
boys  innumerable,  who  were  all  in  love  with  life,  yet 
all  prepared  to  die?  And  especially  the  modest, 
wistful,  and  gentle  lads — how  would  grim  war  af- 
fect those  who  were  scarcely  yet  acquainted  with 
the  ordinary  trials  of  life? 

Pending  personal  investigations  at  the  front,  I 
found  no  little  significance  in  this  case  of  a  young 
Southampton  cabinet-maker,  who,  in  accomplishing 


38  SOULS  IN  KHAKI 

a  heroic  military  exploit,  performed  a  beautiful  act 
of  personal  compassion. 

Let  me  carefully  review  the  facts: 

When,  three  years  before,  Chris  fell  in  love  with 
that  Salvation  Army  lass,  he  was  the  idol  of  his 
beloved  mother,  an  attendant  at  St.  Mary's  Church, 
and  the  devoted  cavalier  of  a  toddling,  chubby  niece 
named  Daisy — biographical  details  which  probably 
do  not  suggest  a  dauntless  warrior.  There  came 
developments  even  more  likely  to  be  classed  as 
namby-pamby. 

As  Agnes  would  not  forsake  the  Army  hall,  Chris 
took  to  going  there  himself.  She  told  me  what 
followed. 

"One  evening,  without  any  prompting  from  me, 
he  made  his  way  from  the  back  gallery  to  the 
penitent  form,  and  it  seemed  nice  that  he  should 
afterwards  say,  *I  was  not  only  kneeling  at  the 
feet  of  Jesus,  but  also  in  a  way  at  your  feet,  Aggie.' 
You  see,  as  a  songster  I  sit  on  the  platform,  and 
was  just  above  him." 

In  his  quiet  way,  Chris  became  an  earnest  Salva- 
tionist, without,  however,  figuring  prominently  in 
the  Corps. 

"Strangely  enough,  he  did  not  become  an  active 
soldier  of  the  Salvation  Army,"  said  Agnes,  "until 
after  joining  the  British  Army;"  and  the  conse- 
crated girl,  battling  bravely  with  her  personal  sor- 
row, here  produced  some  of  Chris's  letters,  that  she 
might  read  me  extracts. 

After  his  first  Sunday  at  Gillingham,  the  newly 
recruited  Royal  Engineer  wrote:  "I  am  at  every 
opportunity  praying  for  you  and  all  at  home;  also 


HERO  AND  SAINT  39 

for  the  Army.  You  say  you  hope  I  shall  come 
back  a  Salvation  soldier.  I  am  better  already,  thank 
God;  and  yesterday  I  thought  I  would  go  for  a 
walk,  and  just  as  I  got  to  Chatham  I  heard  the 
Army  band,  but  I  could  not  see  it.  They  were 
playing  'Whosoever  will  may  come/  so  I  had  to  go. 
It  was  God  speaking  to  me,  and  I  started  running, 
and  saw  the  Army,  and  followed  them  to  the  hall. 
I  went  in,  and  to-day  and  to-night  I  can  say  truth- 
fully that  it  is  well  with  my  soul." 

Later  he  wrote:  "I  went  to  the  Gillingham  hall 
three  times  yesterday.  It  was  lovely.  Last  night 
I  had  three  nice  pals  who  belong  to  the  Army.  We 
all  gave  our  testimony,  one  after  the  other." 

From  Aldershot,  where  he  was  afterwards  sta- 
tioned, Chris  wrote  to  Agnes:  "Yes,  dear,  all  we 
must  say  is  'God's  will  be  done';  and  if  we  say 
that  we  shall  be  quite  safe  and  fit  to  meet  God. 
.  .  .  Last  night  I  saw  the  open-air  meeting,  and 
followed  the  Army  to  the  hall.  It  was  full  of  sol- 
diers. I  had  the  pleasure  of  leading  a  Royal  En- 
gineer to  the  penitent  form. 

"From  other  sources,"  said  Agnes,  "we  heard 
of  four  or  five  more  he  was  privileged  to  help  in 
that  way.  One  had  been  a  deputy-bandmaster,  and 
another,  also  a  backslider,  was  a  Crewe  man." 

A  few  short  months  and  Chris  was  out  on  the 
front  in  France.  There  came  to  Agnes  a  letter 
written  on  the  official  paper  of  the  signalling  corps 
to  which  he  belonged.  "I  am  on  the  line  now," 
he  wrote,  "but  don't  worry.  I  shall  be  all  right. 
God  will  guide  me.  He  has  done,  and  will  do 
again.  It  was  awful  here  on  Thursday  afternoon 


40  SOULS  IN  KHAKI 

and  night.  We  had  a  number  of  our  men  'gassed7 
five  times  and  killed.  God  is  guiding  me  always. 
...  I  saw  a  trench  blown  up  yesterday,  and  nearly 
all  the  men  were  'gassed.'  ' 

Note  his  anxiety,  in  the  midst  of  death  and  dan- 
ger, to  comfort  those  at  home. 

Soon,  indeed,  he  was  enthusiastically  writing  to 
Agnes:  "I've  got  some  good  news  to  tell  you. 
I'm  signal  clerk,  and  I  have  to  remain  at  head- 
quarters all  the  time  and  not  go  into  the  trenches, 
so  I  hope  you  will  not  worry."  And,  as  I  was 
afterwards  to  learn,  the  same  post  brought  the 
same  consoling  tidings  to  Mrs.  Lovell,  in  these 
words:  "I  hope,  dear  mother,  you  are  not  worry- 
ing. I  am  quite  all  right.  I  am  made  signalling 
clerk  in  the  signalling  office." 

A  few  days  later  Mrs.  Lovell  learnt  that  her  son, 
while  voluntarily  discharging  a  duty  of  special  im- 
portance and  peril,  had  received  a  very  severe 
wound. 

"He  was  brought  into  our  hospital,"  wrote  the 
Rev.  J.  H.  Martin,  chaplain  with  the  44th  Field 
Ambulance,  I4th  Division,  "and  we  thought  he  was 
dying.  But  I  am  glad  to  say  that  he  is  progress- 
ing very  favourably.  His  clean  good  life  has  been 
his  hope,  and  still  is.  If  he  had  been  a  fast-living 
young  man  your  Chris  would  have  been  dead  ere 
this.  We  prayed  together,  and  he  sent  his  love 
to  you,  and  he  was  bright  and  happy." 

To  Agnes,  Mr.  Martin  wrote :  "All  are  surprised 
at  his  splendid  rally.  .  .  .  Your  Chris  was  true  to 
his  colours,  and  did  bravely  and  well." 

That  the  lad  had  performed  an  act  of  special 


HERO  AND  SAINT  41 

gallantry  had  meanwhile  received  a  striking  proof. 
The  military  authorities  spontaneously  telegraphed 
their  willingness  that  Mrs.  Lovell  should  immedi- 
ately receive,  free  of  charge,  steamboat  and  rail- 
way facilities  to  visit  her  wounded  boy  in  France. 
"May  I  go  with  her  if  I  pay  my  fare?"  asked  Agnes; 
and  when  it  was  discovered  that  she  and  Lovell 
were  engaged,  a  free  pass  was  accorded  also  to 
her.  (And  my  readers  will  the  more  appreciate 
this  warm-hearted  action  of  the  War  Office,  be- 
cause, as  was  current  knowledge,  scores  of  persons 
professionally  and  socially  distinguished,  includ- 
ing authors,  journalists,  artists,  politicians,  and 
philanthropists,  were  at  that  time  vainly  seeking 
permission  to  visit  the  western  front.) 

At  the  hospital  Mrs.  Lovell  and  Agnes  learnt 
why  Chris  lay  there  so  thin  and  white  that  at  first  the 
former  (though  not  the  latter)  failed  to  recognise 
him. 

It  seemed  that  a  young  engineer  was  sent  out  to 
repair  electric  communications,  and,  if  possible,  cut 
those  of  the  enemy;  but  as  in  the  darkness  he  crept 
on  across  the  fire-swept  zone,  bursting  shells  played 
havoc  with  his  nerves,  so  that,  having  lost  his  way, 
he  returned  whence  he  had  gone. 

Army  discipline,  in  such  cases,  must  seek  a  middle 
course,  no  doubt,  between  a  leniency  that  might 
encourage  weakness  in  others  and  a  stringency  that 
might  imperil  the  end  immediately  in  view. 

"Who  will  volunteer  to  go  with  him?"  asked 
the  officer.  "It  will  be  almost  certain  death."  And 
at  once  Chris  volunteered. 

"You  see,  mother,"  was  the  explanation  Mrs. 


42  SOULS  IN  KHAKI 

Lovell  received  from  her  son,  "the  poor  chap  was 
crying,  and  he  was  only  a  boy — not  much  more 
than  seventeen.  It  was  different  when  he  didn't 
have  to  go  alone.  I  was  able  to  cover  him;  and 
we  got  through  fine.  After  fixing  up  our  ow*n 
wire  we  went  on  and  cut  the  enemy's." 

Nor  does  it  require  much  imagination  to  picture 
their  long  crawl  across  the  undulations  of  clay.  For 
that  poor,  wet-eyed  boy,  how  reassuring  the  com- 
panionship of  one  whose  cool  brain  would  serve  to 
locate  the  lines — whose  foreshortened  body  was  a 
shield  against  bullets.  And,  with  our  clues  to  the 
working  of  Chris's  heart,  who  can  doubt  that  the 
mainspring  of  his  action  was  an  impulse  to  succour 
the  distraught  lad? 

Mother  and  sweetheart  heard  these  further  ex- 
planations : 

"We  were  on  our  way  back,  and  I  began  to 
think  we  should  get  through,  when  something  pos- 
sessed the  boy  to  stand  up.  We  were  spotted  at 
once,  and  out  flashed  the  blue  lights." 

(For  the  vigilant  enemy  eyes  an  erect  form  might 
well  be  dimly  visible  against  the  sky,  whereas  crawl- 
ing forms  would  remain  unrevealed.) 

"I  looked  up  and  saw  the  boy  catch  it  there" 
(Chris  indicated  the  neck),  "and  next  minute  I 
had  a  burning  sensation  in  my  side.  It  was  Sunday 
evening,  Aggie,  and  I  thought  you  might  just  be 
coming  out  of  the  hall.  I  kept  on  thinking  of  you 
all.  It  was  hours  before  any  one  could  come  to 


me." 


And  here  we  may  mention  facts  learnt  from  other 
persons  at  the  hospital.     Chris  was  found  on  the 


HERO  AND  SAINT  43 

battlefield,  fully  conscious  and  "in  an  attitude  of 
prayer."  That  was  the  phrase  of  the  eyewitness. 
But  one  must  not  picture  that  glorious  lad  in  any 
very  formal  attitude.  His  severe  wound  precluded 
anything  in  the  nature  of  a  kneeling  posture.  Nor 
could  the  joined  hands  have  been  extended.  For  in 
one  he  held  a  piece  of  wire  (snipped  no  doubt  from 
the  enemy's  line)  ;  in  the  other  he  still  grasped  his 
pair  of  pliers. 

The  visitors  from  England  took  Chris  some  fruit, 
and,  knowing  his  love  for  flowers,  they  explored 
the  French  countryside  until,  on  at  last  discovering 
a  florist,  they  secured  a  bunch  of  choice  blossoms 
with  which  to  brighten  his  bedside.  And  there  was 
a  new  sparkle  in  the  unselfish  lad's  bright  eyes  as 
he  directed  the  distribution  of  peaches,  apricots,  and 
roses  among  his  fellow-sufferers  and  the  nurses. 

When  Chris  was  found  on  the  battlefield,  his 
pockets  contained  only  the  Bible  Agnes  had  given 
him  (after  marking  the  passage  "Not  my  will  but 
Thine  be  done")  and  his  Salvationist  Song-book. 

"My  wallet  and  everything  else  was  gone,"  he 
explained;  and  it  must  remain  an  open  question 
whether  they  fell  out  as  he  crawled  along  the  ground 
or  as  he  was  being  borne  from  the  field. 

(One  of  the  missing  articles,  after  following  a 
roundabout  route  from  hand  to  hand,  found  its  way 
back  some  weeks  later  to  the  Lovells'  home  at  South- 
ampton. It  was  a  photograph  of  Chris's  chubby 
little  favourite,  Daisy.) 

Before  returning  to  England,  mother  and  sweet- 
heart received  the  comforting  assurance  that  Chris 
would  soon  be  sent  across  to  Netley  Hospital,  where, 


44.  SOULS  IN  KHAKI 

it  was  pointed  out,  they  would  be  able  to  see  much 
of  him.  Meanwhile  they  left  him  surrounded  by 
well-wishers,  including  a  chance  acquaintance  that 
the  ladies  had  made  under  the  following  circum- 
stances : 

Setting  out  for  the  hospital  one  morning  on  foot, 
they  had  lost  their  way,  and,  meeting  only  French 
folk  who  could  not  understand  them,  were  com- 
pletely baffled  until  reaching  the  brow  of  a  chalk- 
pit, in  which  English  soldiers  were  working.  Kneel- 
ing on  the  grass,  Agnes  peeped  over  and  called  out: 
"Tommy!"  Several  young  fellow-countrymen  were 
soon  scrambling  up  in  answer  to  that  summons,  and 
the  first  to  reach  the  summit,  a  private  in  the  I2th 
London  Regiment,  became  their  guide  to  the  hos- 
pital, and  volunteered,  not  only  to  visit  Chris  when 
they  were  gone,  but  to  write  and  tell  them  how  he 
was  getting  en. 

Strange  indeed  the  interwoven  destinies  of  human 
beings !  Chris,  recovering  so  triumphantly  from  his 
wound,  developed  pneumonia  and  died;  and  it  fell 
to  the  lot  of  the  chalk-pit  boy  to  dig  his  grave.  That 
lad  also  sent  the  following  account  of  the  state  in 
which  he  found  Chris  when  the  end  was  approach- 
ing: 

"He  seemed  pleased  with  the  whole  world,  by 
the  expression  on  his  face;  but  in  his  mind,  poor 
chap,  he  was  wander'..ig." 

A  lady  visitor  to  the  hospital,  who  saw  Chris  a 
little  earlier,  wrote  these  details  to  Mrs.  Lovell: 
"He  was  breathing  very  hard.  With  great  diffi- 
culty he  said,  'Mother  was  here  last  week.'  I  said, 
'Yes,  be  brave,  dear,  and  she  may  come  again.  God 


HERO  AND  SAINT  45 

will  help  you  to  bear  up.'     He  said,  'Yes,  I  know/ 
He  seemed  to  have  infinite  faith." 

Brumpton  and  Chris  Lovell — yes,  they  certainly 
were  similar  cases.  Who  could  remain  pessimistic 
about  a  war,  or  about  anything  else,  in  a  world  that 
produces  such  as  they? 


CHAPTER  III 

FAITHFUL  FIGHTERS 

A  hero's  midnight  conversion — Kerbstone  devotions — Instructive 
boxing-gloves — A  peace-loving  lad  as  a  fearless  fighter — An- 
other glimpse  of  shipwrecked  Brum:  succouring  the  screaming 
boy — A  cloud  of  Salvationist  heroes — Godly  men  v.  dare- 
devils— The  faith  that  knows  no  fear — A  soldier  lad  and  his 
frivolous  mother — Bedside  prayers  in  the  men's  quarters— 
Half-measures  resented — Why? 

FURTHER  facts  concerning  Chris  were  promised;  but 
already,  it  will  be  noted,  I  knew  far  more  about  him 
than  about  Brumpton.  However,  interviews  at 
Portsmouth  soon  gave  me  glimpses  of  the  life  and 
character  of  that  glorious  sailor. 

"Fifteen  years  ago/'  said  Mr.  F.  Whiteing,  a 
Salvationist  shopkeeper,  "Brumpton  was  converted 
on  the  deck  of  a  battleship  through  the  efforts  of 
Corporal  Dicks.  It  was  twelve  o'clock  at  night, 
and  the  two  knelt  together  under  one  of  the  big 
guns.  Before  then  Brumpton  had  been  given  to 
drinking,  fighting,  and  swearing.  After  that  his 
chief  concern  was  to  help  others  to  get  the  blessing 
which  had  transformed  his  life." 

I  wanted  specific  instances  of  the  way  Brumpton's 
influence  was  felt;  and  Jock  Cummings,  a  dapper 
little  Salvationist  in  the  tailor's  shop  at  Eastney 
Barracks,  was  able  to  satisfy  me. 

46 


FAITHFUL  FIGHTERS  47 

"Brum,  for  that's  what  we  called  him,"  said  Jock, 
"was  always  cheerful  and  smiling,  and  as  he  passed 
to  and  fro  in  these  barracks  (he  was  one  of  us, 
you  know — a  Red  Marine)  he  would  often  be  sing- 
ing some  Salvation  Army  song.  Whenever  he  met 
mates  looking  downhearted  he  would  be  sure  to 
try  and  cheer  them  up.  'Don't  keep  your  troubles,' 
was  a  favourite  remark  of  Brum's;  'throw  them  into 
the  scran-bag.'  He  was  out  and  out  in  everything. 
If  he  was  taken  with  the  idea  to  pray,  he'd  do  it, 
no  matter  where  he  was." 

"Can  you  remember  an  instance  of  that?" 

"Well,  soon  after  he  came  back  from  Malta," 
said  Jock,  "he  and  I  were  walking  together  just 
opposite  the  cemetery  in  Highland  Road  when  down 
he  went  on  his  knees  on  the  edge  of  the  pavement; 
and,  of  course,  I  joined  him.  An  unusual  sight 
that,  to  see  two  men  praying  (aye,  and  to  hear  them, 
too,  for  Brum  had  a  powerful  voice)  on  the  kerb 
at  about  eight  o'clock  one  summer's  evening  in  a 
pretty  crowded  street  of  Portsmouth.  I  suppose 
we  must  have  been  at  it  for  ten  minutes,  and  about 
thirty  people  gathered  round." 

"Did  they  jeer?" 

"Oh,  no.  There  were  the  usual  critics,  of  course; 
but  Brum's  gracious  spirit  won  most  of  them.  They 
could  see  he  meant  it." 

"Did  he  have  much  to  put  up  with  in  barracks?" 

"Nothing  out  of  the  ordinary,  I  think.  A  cer- 
tain amount  of  scoffing  is  what  you've  got  to  ex- 
pect. But  when  they  see  a  man  is  living  true  to 
his  religion  they'll  mostly  leave  him  alone.  Any 
one  new  is  often  a  little  troublesome  at  first.  But 


48  SOULS  IN  KHAKI 

Brum  could  take  his  own  part.  Once  there  came 
along  a  man  who  was  a  bit  of  a  bully  and  given 
to  fighting.  Hearing  Brum  say  something  about 
salvation,  the  bully  started  calling  him  a  'Ummy- 
dum,'  which  is  a  name  theyVe  got  in  the  service 
for  anybody  reckoned  to  be  soft  and  goody-goody. 
After  a  bit  he  challenged  Brum  to  come  into  the 
gymnasium;  but,  of  course,  Brum  didn't  want  to 
go,  and  so  tried  to  laugh  it  off.  But  the  bully  only 
kept  on  all  the  more,  fancying  he  saw  his  way  to 
some  fine  sport;  and  in  the  end  Brum  was  fairly 
worried  into  putting  on  the  gloves.  As  it  happened 
he  had  taken  lessons  in  boxing  at  Malta  before  his 
conversion;  what's  more,  he  hadn't  been  frittering 
away  his  strength  by  drinking  and  in  other  bad  ways ; 
so  he  was  more  than  a  match  for  the  other  man.  But, 
to  begin  with,  Brum  took  a  little  punishment;  then 
he  got  to  work  in  earnest.  It  wasn't  many  minutes 
before  the  bully  had  had  quite  enough.  'Hm!'  he 
muttered,  as  he  nursed  his  poor  bruised  face,  'do 
you  call  that  salvation?'  'No,  mate,'  replied  Brum, 
'that's  correction.  We'll  talk  about  salvation  now.' 
And  at  once  he  began." 

And  so  Brum  was  revealed  as  physically  strong 
and  a  fighter — the  sort  of  man  who  is  endowed  by 
nature  with  traditional  qualities  of  the  hero.  I 
wondered  if  perhaps  Chris  were  not  just  such  an- 
other robust  specimen  of  manhood.  True,  a  con- 
trary impression  had  been  left  upon  my  mind  by 
the  information  already  forthcoming;  but  that  im- 
pression was  now  seen  to  have  insufficient  warrant. 

Thus,  on  visiting  Mrs.  Lovell  at  Southampton,  I 
was  concerned  to  ascertain  if,  as  between  her  son 


FAITHFUL  FIGHTERS  49 

and  the  sailor,  there  had  existed  an  identity  of  tem- 
perament to  correspond  with  an  essential  similarity 
in  the  manner  of  their  dying.  But  photographs  of 
Chris  suggested  a  sensitive,  gentle,  and  diffident  lad; 
while  a  letter  from  his  employers — the  Southamp- 
ton cabinet-maker  for  whom  he  had  worked  since 
leaving  school — contained  the  following  passage: 
"Your  dear  boy  did  his  duty  in  face  of  being  really 
a  very  peace-loving  young  man.  It  is  all  to  his 
credit.  I  know  that  he  was  very  God-fearing." 

This  evidence,  however,  if  it  destroyed  one  hy- 
pothesis, provoked  another.  Since  the  lad  was  so 
obviously  of  a  mild  and  unaggressive  character, 
might  not  his  act  of  superb  self-sacrifice  have  re- 
sulted merely  from  impulse — the  unconsidered 
prompting  of  a  happy  moment?  But  to  another  son 
of  Mrs.  Lovell,  Chris's  officer  wrote:  "I  have 
known  your  brother  well  for  a  long  time,  and  he 
was  under  my  command  from  the  time  we  embarked 
until  I  was  'gassed'  on  June  30.  He  was  always 
an  excellent  soldier,  and  his  behaviour  under  fire 
was  a  credit  to  his  (or  any)  corps.  He  was  always 
cheerful  even  under  the  most  trying  conditions,  and 
there  are  very  few  of  whom  I  can  say  the  same." 

So  that  slender  success  attended  attempts  to  trace 
an  analogy  between  the  character  of  the  hero  and 
the  character  of  his  deed.  It  merely  seemed  that 
the  gentle  cabinet-maker  was  differentiated  from  the 
muscular  marine  by  a  quality  of  chivalrous  compas- 
sion for  youth.  But  even  this  modest  deduction  did 
not  survive  a  conversation  with  Sergeant  Barnes, 
who  in  barracks  was  in  charge  of  the  company  to 
which  Brum  belonged. 


SO  SOULS  IN  KHAKI 

"A  fine,  straight  man  Brumpton  was,"  exclaimed 
the  sergeant;  "and,  mind  you,  that's  the  word  of 
one  who's  in  a  position  to  know — nobody  better. 
For  it's  part  of  my  duty  to  watch  the  men  under 
me,  and  there's  not  a  great  deal  any  one  can  do 
or  say  in  barracks  but  gets  noticed.  What's  more, 
when  youVe  got  twenty-eight  men  living  together 
by  themselves  inside  of  four  walls,  you're  not  ex- 
actly dealing  with  a  Sunday-school;  and  if  anybody 
in  a  crowd  like  that  starts  out  to  live  same  as  your 
pal,  he's  taken  on  a  big  job — no  mistake.  But 
Brumpton  kept  to  his  course,  straight  and  true. 
And,  mind  you,  I'm  a  different  sort  of  man  my- 
self— I've  got  to  admit  it.  But  I  want  to  say  right 
out  that  he  lived  up  to  what  he  claimed  to  be.  If 
there  was  bad  language  going  about,  he'd  be  up 
and  put  in  his  word  against  it,  no  matter  if  it  was 
an  officer  or  anybody  else.  Same  as  myself,  when 
I  might  have  spoken  a  bit  too  free,  he'd  step  right 
up  to  me — quite  respectful,  mind;  you  couldn't  well 
take  any  offence — and  just  say  he  thought  I'd  have 
different  words  in  my  mouth  if  I  gave  the  matter 
more  thought.  Yes;  while  he  did  his  duty  in  the 
service  as  good  as  the  next  man,  your  people  can  take 
it  from  me  that  his  ways  of  carrying  on  here  would 
have  come  up  to  all  they  could  have  expected  of 
him." 

And  gradually  I  realised  that  the  honest  sergeant 
assumed  that  I  was  endeavouring  to  ascertain,  on 
behalf  of  the  Salvation  Army,  whether  Brumpton 
had  or  had  not  lived  consistently  as  a  Salvationist. 

"Did  you  hear  of  the  way  he  behaved  in  the 
water?"  I  asked,  "when  his  ship  was  torpedoed?" 


FAITHFUL  FIGHTERS  51 

"Aye,"  replied  the  sergeant;  "some  of  the  sur- 
vivors came  back  here  after  it  happened,  and  they 
brought  us  news  of  Brumpton.  He  and  six  others 
got  on  a  bit  of  a  raft — five  being  men  who  told  us 
about  it,  and  the  other  a  lad  who'd  gone  funny  in 
his  head  by  the  shock.  It  seems  this  lad  was  scream- 
ing, and  wouldn't  stay  quiet  in  one  place,  so  he  had 
the  raft  capsized  twice.  In  fact,  he  carried  on  so 
off  the  level  that  it  didn't  give  the  others  a  fair 
chance,  and  what  with  his  screams  and  one  thing 
and  another,  they'd  soon  had  enough  of  it.  So, 
being  good  swimmers,  they  sheered  off  to  look  for 
a  quieter  berth.  But  they  couldn't  persuade  Brump- 
ton to  go  with  them.  He  wasn't  going  to  leave  that 
crazy  youngster.  So  the  five  came  away  by  them- 
selves and  got  picked  up,  an  hour  or  so  afterwards, 
from  an  upturned  boat  they  soon  sighted.  But  that 
was  the  last  news  they  could  give  us  of  poor  Brump- 
ton— seeing  him  still  on  the  raft  and  trying  to  coax 
the  crazy  lad  to  be  quiet.  What  happened  after 
that  nobody  knows " 

"But,"  I  interposed,  "are  you  sure  we  are  speak- 
ing of  the  same  man?  I  have  heard  very  different 
details  of  Brumpton's  death." 

"Yes,  yes,"  replied  the  sergeant,  "there  was  only 
one  Brumpton.  I  knew  him  well.  And  these  men 
I'm  telling  you  about — Carter,  Fish,  and  the  others 
— served  in  my  company,  same  as  he  did.  Most 
likely  you  heard  about  him  giving  up  for  another 
man  when  there  wasn't  support  for  two.  That's 
the  bit  that  got  into  the  papers.  I  didn't  have  the 
facts  first-hand,  but  it'ud  be  just  like  Brumpton  to 


52  SOULS  IN  KHAKI 

do  a  thing  like  that.  Several  were  saying  the  other 
was  a  man  named  Peter  Ross." 

"But,"  I  pointed  out,  "there  doesn't  seem  any 
connection  between  the  two  accounts." 

"Neither  is  there,"  replied  the  sergeant.  "A  tidy 
time  would  have  gone  by  between  the  one  affair 
and  the  other.  What  became  of  the  daft  boy  nobody 
could  say.  Very  likely  him  and  Brumpton  got 
aboard  the  Cressy,  and  then,  when  she  was  tor- 
pedoed, they'd  be  thrown  in  the  water  again,  only 
of  course  they'd  have  parted  company  before  that. 
It  was  a  mixed-up  affair,  the  three  cruisers  being 
blown  up  one  after  the  other;  and  a  good  many  sur- 
vivors from  one  got  aboard  another,  and  then  had 
a  further  dose  when  she  was  hit." 

And  so  we  have  a  second  glimpse  of  Brum  in  the 
area  of  catastrophe  and  death,  and  in  that  second 
glimpse  we  again  see  him  sacrificing  himself  for  an- 
other. Indeed,  the  more  deeply  I  have  probed  my 
two  cases,  the  more  impressive  were  the  facts  that 
came  to  light  respecting  them.  Another  tendency 
was  for  new  facts  to  emphasise  the  difference  in 
temperament  between  Brum  and  Chris  and  the  sim- 
ilarity of  spirit  that  controlled  their  actions. 

Not  that  it  was  possible  to  associate  a  supreme 
manifestation  of  that  spirit  with  these  two  in  par- 
ticular. The  bent  of  my  inquiries  being  noted,  I 
now  heard  on  all  hands  of  other  Salvationist  soldiers 
and  sailors  who,  on  specific  occasions,  had  either 
given  or  risked  their  lives  for  comrades.  Never 
did  I  visit  a  Salvation  Army  corps  without  learn- 
ing that  some  of  its  members,  returning  home  on 
a  few  days'  leave,  had  testified  from  personal  ob- 


FAITHFUL  FIGHTERS  53 

servation  to  acts  of  heroism  and  self-sacrifice  per- 
formed by  Salvationist  chums.  Again  and  again 
I  heard  of  Salvationists  on  land  and  sea  whose  gal- 
lantry, unlike  that  of  Brum  and  Chris,  had  been 
so  conspicuous  as  to  win  awards  from  the  authori- 
ties. Tidings  reached  me  of  towns  beflagging  them- 
selves, and  according  civic  welcomes,  in  honour  of 
Salvationist  privates  and  N.C.O.'s  who  had  won 
the  D.C.M.  or  other  distinction. 

By  following  up  a  small  proportion  of  those  cases, 
I  could  have  filled  this  book  twice  over  with  stories 
such  as  those  of  Brum  and  Chris.  Especially  tempt- 
ing were  some  of  the  possibilities  that  opened  be- 
fore me,  as,  for  instance,  the  following  extract  from 
a  letter  written  by  Sergeant  Mitchell  (a  soldier  of 
the  Blackwood  Salvation  Army  corps),  who  had 
received  a  D.C.M. : 

"The  old  saying  that  to  win  battle  honours  you 
have  to  be  a  kind  of  dare-devil  is  false,  and  it  has 
been  amply  proved  so  in  this  war.  It  is  the  men 
of  God  who  have  come  out  on  top.  It  was  Christ 
in  me  and  for  me  that  enabled  me  to  do  what  I 
did." 

But  I  could  spare  no  more  time  for  initial  investi- 
gations, especially  as  the  facts  already  elicited 
showed  that  the  devout  Christian,  because  he  was 
a  devout  Christian,  faced  danger  unafraid,  in  no 
wise  concerned  for  his  own  safety,  but  full  of  solici- 
tude for  the  safety  of  others.  On  entering  the  bat- 
tle arena  he  lived  triumphantly  in  the  spirit,  having 
risen  superior  to  the  flesh. 

We  know  how  readily  faith  will  flicker  during 
.trivial  trials  of  daily  life;  which  made  more  re- 


54  SOULS  IN  KHAKI 

markable  the  proof  that,  under  the  supreme,  death- 
facing  test,  faith  burnt  bright  and  steadily. 

My  immediate  interest  now  shifted  from  Salva- 
tionists to  the  others — to  the  massed  thousands 
marching  and  drilling  on  the  verdant  undulations; 
to  those  men  and  lads  who,  while  the  glory  of  an 
absolute  self-sacrifice  rested  upon  all,  were  other- 
wise a  miscellaneous  host  representing  all  groups 
of  the  Christian  Church,  all  degrees  of  piety,  and 
all  shades  of  unbelief  and  of  indifference  to  religion. 
At  least,  they  had  been  thus  widely  divergent  in 
civil  life.  What  of  them  now? 

Was  I  not  already  discerning  indications  that,  by 
so  nobly  volunteering  to  face  death  for  the  sake  of 
others,  those  men  and  lads  had  won  their  entrance 
into  a  mental  realm  where  the  factors  of  mortal 
existence  stood  revealed  with  a  new  distinctness? 

Nor  in  this  connection  can  I  forbear  from  repeat- 
ing what  was  said  to  me,  at  that  time,  by  the  woman 
officer  of  a  North  London  Salvation  Army  corps. 

"Early  in  the  war,"  she  said,  "a  great  many  young 
fellows  of  this  neighbourhood,  including  all  our  big 
lads,  went  as  soldiers;  and  there  hasn't  been  a  single 
week-end  lately  but  one  or  more  of  them,  being 
home  on  leave,  have  turned  up  at  our  meetings.  They 
were  splendid  before,  but  they  are  still  more  splen- 
did now.  Of  course  in  some  cases  their  experiences 
have  been  terrible,  but  one  can't  help  seeing  that 
they  have  come  through  the  awful  trial  with  new 
strength  and  a  new  steadfastness — yes,  and  with  a 
new  sweetness  in  their  smiles  In  fact,  I  don't  grieve 
over  our  brave  soldiers.  They  seem  happy  and 
safe.  The  worst  tragedy,  I  often  feel,  is  here  at 


FAITHFUL  FIGHTERS  55 

home.  Look  at  the  crowded  public  houses !  Look 
at  the  overflowing  cinemas!  Look  at  the  newspa- 
pers, with  their  two  leading  features  side  by  side — > 
one  half  of  the  page  devoted  to  the  slain  and  ac- 
counts of  the  terrible  fighting,  with  the  other  half 
given  up  to  finery  and  fashions  for  women!'* 

But  I  am  quoting  this  lady  in  view  of  the  narra- 
tive to  which  those  remarks  led  her. 

"A  few  evenings  ago/'  she  said,  "a  lad  living 
near  here  (not  a  Salvationist,  by  the  way)  arrived 
home  rather  unexpectedly  from  the  firing  line.  He 
found  a  party  in  progress,  with  his  mother  in  eve- 
ning dress,  with  wine  on  the  sideboard,  and  with 
all  the  company  in  boisterous  spirits.  The  lad,  who 
had  never  been  away  from  his  people  for  so  long 
before,  had  been  longing  for  that  homecoming;  but 
I  can  understand  his  disappointment  at  finding  a 
house  full  of  noisy  people  in  place  of  the  quiet  do- 
mestic privacy  he  had  pictured.  After  the  scenes 
he  had  just  come  from,  one  can  understand  how 
hard  he  found  it  to  adapt  himself  to  the  frivolous 
gathering.  But  it  seems  he  struggled  on  fairly  well 
until,  something  being  said  about  the  theatre  tax, 
his  mother  exclaimed:  'Oh,  this  horrid  war!  it 
does  so  interfere  with  our  pleasures,  doesn't  it?' 
Then  the  boy  broke  down  and  half  sobbed:  'Oh, 
mother,  mother,  why  can't  you  understand?' ' 

But  more  important  (because  of  general  applica- 
tion) was  the  evidence  yielded  by  my  continued 
visits  to  the  huts. 

Several  times  mention  was  made  of  what  befell 
Salvationists  when,  before  going  to  bed  in  their 
crowded  camp  quarters,  they  knelt  to*  pray.  It 


56  SOULS  IN  KHAKI 

is  not  surprising  that  here  and  there  a  lad,  arriving 
tired  and  perhaps  dispirited  among  new  com- 
panions, should  be  so  oppressed  by  vulgar,  and  some- 
times obscene,  talk  going  on  around  him  that  he 
refrained  from  any  outward  manifestation  of  his 
devotions;  nor  that  such  a  one,  dissatisfied  with 
the  compromise  of  secret  prayer,  should,  on  the 
second  or  third  night,  gain  courage  openly  to  kneel 
in  the  sight  of  all  his  comrades.  And  since  it 
seemed  that  he  always  provoked  a  storm  of  jeering, 
sneering,  and  mocking,  one  felt  uncertain  which 
act  of  the  young  Salvationist  showed  a  finer  courage 
— that  of  enlisting  in  King  George's  army  or  that 
of  revealing  himself  a  soldier  of  Christ.  There 
were,  of  course,  those  other  Salvationists — the  ma- 
jority— who  publicly  prayed  on  the  first  night  as 
on  all  others;  and  the  evidence  was  general  that 
they  not  only  escaped  persecution,  but  won  their 
way  to  a  position  of  great  influence  in  the  hut. 

"You  see,"  said  one  Salvation  Army  officer,  "if 
a  man  is  true  to  his  colours  from  the  outset,  all 
goes  well.  But  there  must  be  no  faltering;  the 
other  men  object  strongly  to  that.  They  respect 
any  one  who  is  thorough  in  his  religion,  but  they 
don't  like  half  measures." 

Other  Salvation  Army  officers  said  the  same,  and 
it  never  occurred  to  me  to  question  their  deduction, 
which  seemed  to  have  full  authority  from  the  facts; 
though  certainly,  with  one's  sympathies  so  readily 
engaged  by  the  human  frailty  of  diffident  and  sensi- 
tive youths,  it  was  not  easy  to  see  why  Tommy 
should  feel  called  upon  to  supervise,  and  with  a 


FAITHFUL  FIGHTERS  57 

drastic  hand  control,  the  forms  taken  by  the  religion 
of  other  persons. 

But  it  came  to  light  that  the  deduction  was  so 
incomplete  as  to  be  misleading.  The  truth  dawned 
upon  me  by  stages. 

I  heard  of  several  significant  cases,  including  that 
of  Corporal  Humphries,  whose  military  duties  held 
him  for  some  months  at  a  camp  in  the  Aldershot 
district. 

"Corporal  Humphries  exercises  a  wonderful  in- 
fluence on  the  men,"  said  the  officer  in  charge  of 
the  local  Salvation  Army  hut.  "He  commands  re- 
spect not  only  among  those  in  his  own  hut,  but 
over  a  very  wide  circle  beyond.  The  men  consult 
him  in  their  difficulties  and  defer  to  his  judgment. 
Last  New  Year's  Eve  they  paid  him  a  much-appre- 
ciated compliment  in  the  way  they  celebrated  the 
occasion.  They  told  him  beforehand  they  had  had 
things  all  their  way  up  till  then,  so  they  were  going 
to  let  his  ideas  have  a  show  for  once.  And  when 
the  celebration  took  place  it  was  scrupulously  tee- 
total, no  man  touching  a  drop  of  liquor  all  the  eve- 
ning. You  see  how  the  soldiers  are  influenced  by 
a  man  when  his  religion  is  seen  to  be  thorough  and 
uncompromising." 

And  my  informant  went  on  to  mention  further 
facts  that  were  specially  illuminating. 

"After  a  while,"  he  said,  "another  Salvationist 
came  to  those  quarters — a  lad  from  the  north. 
There  was  nothing  to  show  he  was  a  Salvationist, 
nor  did  the  two  get  in  touch  with  one  another 
at  first;  but  somebody  found  out,  and  word  must 
have  been  passed  round  among  the  thirty  or  forty 


58  SOULS  IN  KHAKI 

other  men.  That  night,  soon  after  he  had  gone 
to  bed,  Corporal  Humphries  heard  a  disturbance 
at  the  other  end  of  the  hut;  and,  thinking  his 
services  might  be  useful  as  a  peacemaker,  he  went 
to  see  what  was  amiss.  But  he  was  practically 
waved  on  one  side,  and  the  men  said:  'You  are 
all  right;  we  have  nothing  to  say  against  you.  But 
if  anybody  else  calls  himself  a  Salvationist  here,  he 
must  act  straight.  It's  got  to  be  one  thing  or  the 
other;  we  don't  want  any  half-and-half  chaps  in 
this  hut.'  Then  it  turned  out  that,  being  afraid  of 
ridicule,  the  young  Salvationist  had  not  knelt  by 
his  bedside  to  say  his  prayers.  The  poor  fellow  had 
a  lot  of  rather  rough  criticism  to  listen  to,  and  it 
took  him  some  time  to  live  down  that  first  mistake, 
for  which  he  made  no  attempt  to  hide  his  shame 
and  penitence.  However,  being  a  thoroughly  sound 
young  chap  at  heart,  he  ultimately  won  his  comrades' 
respect  and  confidence  in  a  marked  degree." 

It  seemed  obvious  to  me  that  the  young  Salva- 
tionist had  not  been  called  to  book  in  any  mere 
spirit  of  mild  horseplay.  Whence,  then,  the  British 
Army's  anxiety  that  its  representatives  of  religion 
should  be  above  reproach?  To  this  question  an 
answer  was  suggested  by  the  following  remarks  of 
a  Salvationist  officer  in  a  Kentish  camp : 

"Quite  a  number  of  our  lads  in  the  ranks,"  he 
said,  "come  and  report  themselves  here.  They  help 
with  our  open-air  services.  But  their  most  use- 
ful work,  I  think,  is  in  the  quiet  influence  they  are 
able  to  exercise  over  their  comrades.  It  is  not  lim- 
ited to  private  conversations.  A  fine  young  fellow 
told  me  he  was  sitting  on  his  bed  reading  his  Bible 


FAITHFUL  FIGHTERS  59 

when  several  gathered  round,  and  one  said,  'Don't 
keep  it  all  to  yourself,  lad.  If  you  read  it  aloud 
we  can  all  hear.'  He  had  quite  a  good  audience  as 
he  read  several  chapters;  and,  after  that,  Bible  read- 
ings in  the  hut  became  a  regular  thing,  the  lad  often 
being  called  upon  to  explain  passages.  I  heard  of 
another  Salvationist  who,  when  getting  up  from 
his  knees  one  evening,  was  asked  if  he  would  mind 
praying  for  them  all;  and  from  that  date  a  short 
prayer-meeting,  led  by  the  Salvationist,  often  took 
place  before  they  turned  in." 

I  began  to  see  signs  that  to  the  heroes  who  were 
ready  to  fight  and  die — at  any  rate  to  a  large  pro- 
portion of  them — religion  had  become  an  imme- 
diate personal  interest. 


CHAPTER  IV 

ARRIVAL  IN  FRANCE 

Civilian  khaki — Repressed  emotion  at  Victoria — Officers  and  their 
relatives — The  mother:  an  incident — Thoughts  on  the  train — 
Innocent  hypocrites — The  smell  of  the  sea — An  emotional  reac- 
tion— High  spirits  afloat — England  in  France — A  town's  tribu- 
lation— Red  Cross  work:  dramatic  night  scene — Unloading  a 
hospital  train — Smiles  from  a  Salvation  Army  ambulance — 
Depressing  stretcher  cases — Instructive  sitting  cases — Thrilling 
fortitude. 

WITH  Foreign  Office  co-operation,  the  War  Office 
put  in  motion  certain  delicate  machinery  to  ensure 
that,  along  our  front  in  Flanders,  the  non-official 
civilian  should  have  a  footing  and  facilities;  and 
early  one  morning  I  repaired  to  Victoria  Station 
in  clothes  which,  while  not  a  khaki  uniform,  were 
(in  accordance  with  influential  instructions)  of  a 
cut  and  complexion  generally  to  resemble  such  a 
uniform  when  viewed  from  afar. 

Well  before  the  whistle  blew,  our  train  was 
crowded  (mainly  with  British  officers)  far  beyond 
its  seating  capacity.  The  platform  was  thronged 
with  mothers,  fathers,  wives,  sweethearts,  sisters, 
and  little  brothers. 

Moments  of  tense  ordeal  were  passing.  For  arti- 
ficial jauntiness  rings  more  tragically  than  unre- 

60 


ARRIVAL  IN  FRANCE  61 

strained  sobbing,  and  a  piteous  element  of  grimace 
enters  into  the  smile  that  is  attempted  in  defiance 
of  a  breaking  heart.  Less  of  an  emotional  strain 
attends  the  entraining  of  troops,  when  poor  old 
mothers  blubber  outright,  and  no  relative  is  ashamed 
of  streaming  eyes.  But  breeding  and  class  involve 
strange  obligations;  and  at  the  departure  of  the 
officers'  train  there  was  a  conspiracy  to  deny  grief 
the  solace  of  tears. 

A  little  chap  in  an  Eton  suit,  his  lips  and  chin 
quivering,  bravely  saluted  Daddy  good-bye  with  a 
small  hand  raised  smartly  to  position.  Several  of 
us  were  crowding  within  the  entrance  to  a  Pullman 
coach,  our  feet  hemmed  in  by  sprawling  luggage. 

Already  there  was  the  first  tremor  of  movement 
in  the  train,  and  a  young  Lieutenant,  as  a  prelimi- 
nary to  joining  us,  had  just  kissed  his  mother  fare- 
well. 

They  were  a  notable  couple — his  sensitive  features 
conveying  a  suggestion  of  birth  and  social  position 
which  the  tasteful  simplicity  of  her  dress  confirmed. 
Equal  to  all  trials  is  the  quiet  self-control  which 
belongs  to  the  traditions  of  patrician  blood.  To  all- 
trials?  No;  not  quite  all. 

See !  Her  arms  suddenly  outstretch  and  in  frantic 
abandonment  are  flung  round  him.  The  seconds 
tick  out  as  with  head  bowed  he  is  locked  immovable 
in  that  crushing  embrace.  Twenty  years  have  passed 
in  a  flash,  and  still  the  precious  infant  head  is  rest- 
ing on  her  breast.  But  all  is  now  at  an  agonising 
end.  For  (as  the  action  so  vividly  reveals)  her 
heart  has  told  her  that  she  will  never  see  him  more 
— that  during  the  weary  years  to  come  she  will  feed, 


62  SOULS  IN  KHAKI 

ravenous  and  unsatisfied,  on  the  memory  of  that 
last  sensation  of  having  his  shoulder  and  warm 
neck  pressing  against  her  hands  and  bosom. 

The  train  has  advanced  less  than  a  couple  of 
yards.  He  is  now  safely  on  the  steps,  his  head  still 
drooping,  his  face  ashen.  But  he  need  not  suppose 
that  the  others  are  watching  him.  Poor  lads!  all 
their  faces  are  dull  and  still.  With  each  it  has  been 
a  mother,  a  father,  a  sweetheart,  or  some  one — 
nay,  with  many  it  was  a  group  of  dear  ones. 

For  those  boys,  at  that  moment,  existence  had 
become  divided  into  two  contrary  phases — the 
golden  past  of  honeysuckle,  laughter,  and  happiness; 
the  leaden  future  of  bullets,  blood,  and  grim  un- 
certainty. 

It  deepened  one's  sense  of  the  contrast  that  we 
should  be  running  through  the  grey  region  of  South 
London  roofs — an  experience  ironically  suggestive 
of  the  beginnings  of  former  holidays,  spent  either 
on  our  healthy  seashore  or  among  the  bright  inter- 
ests of  the  Continent.  We  stared  out  of  window 
with  fixed  eyes  and  set  lips. 

How  grievously  changed  was  the  world !  France 
— Belgium — no  longer  do  thy  names  suggest  sunny 
gaieties,  but,  instead,  blows,  wounds,  and  groaning. 
We  are  bound  for  a  carnival,  not  of  flowers  and 
frolic,  but  of  death  and  destruction. 

The  remorseless  train  was  hurrying  us  towards 
the  war — hurrying  that  boy  farther  and  farther  from 
his  mother,  who  already,  it  might  be,  deaf  to  those 
assisting  her  along  the  platform,  was  staring  with 
fearful  eyes  into  the  blank  future.  Sore,  indeed, 
her  present  plight — unless  she  knows  there  are  angels 


ARRIVAL  IN  FRANCE  63 

in  Heaven.  Let  Pity  stretch  sheltering  wings  over 
those  who  have  sought  to  anchor  their  lives  to  earthly 
joys,  which,  as  the  train  speeds  south,  are  seen  to 
have  no  permanence.  Happy  they  who  have  thrown 
beyond  this  world  those  moorings  of  love  and  faith 
that  hold  fast  now  and  always.  For  on  that  jour- 
ney from  Victoria  Station  one  realised  anew  that 
things  of  the  earth  melt  like  vapour,  while  only 
the  things  discerned  by  spiritual  senses  are  solid 
and  enduring  rock. 

There  was  some  lightening  of  the  mental  burden 
as  we  reached  suburban  gardens,  with  their  com- 
forting green,  their  reassuring  blossoms.  The 
subalterns  have  lit  their  cigarettes,  concerned  to 
convince  one  another  that  nothing  is  amiss — and  all 
the  while  omitting  to  laugh  and  smile.  O  innocent 
hypocrites !  Senior  officers,  for  whom  this  is  a  re- 
turn journey,  confer  earnestly  together,  striving  to 
revive  an  interest  in  trenches,  shells,  and  night  at- 
tacks, and  so  shut  off  mental  pictures  of  sweet,  wist- 
ful faces  floating  through  recent  scenes  in  home  sur- 
roundings. 

Having  piled  our  kits  in  a  recess,  a  number  of  us 
stood  jammed  together  in  a  corridor;  but  before 
the  train  had  reached  open  country,  a  friendly  at- 
tendant, having  contrived  a  makeshift  seat  in  the 
car,  came  and  singled  me  out  for  the  privilege  of 
sitting  on  it.  Nor — being,  as  would  seem,  frater- 
nally minded  towards  the  solitary  civilian — would 
he  tolerate  my  reluctance  to  profit  by  such  favour- 
itism. So,  besides  being  soothed  by  an  act  of  human 
kindness,  I  now  surveyed  the  scene  from  a  position 
of  physical  ease. 


64*  SOULS  IN  KHAKI 

But  that  railway  journey  continued  to  be  a  dull 
ordeal,  and  I  think  everybody  was  relieved  when, 
upon  the  train  stopping  at  a  pier  lashed  by  grey 
waves,  we  found  occupation  for  our  minds  and 
muscles  in  swarming,  luggage-laden,  through  turn- 
stiles and  formalities  towards  the  steamboat. 

The  smell  of  the  salt  sea — always  incense  in  the 
nostrils  of  Young  England — gave  the  finishing  touch 
to  an  emotional  reaction ;  I  found  myself  in  the  midst 
of  compressed  lips,  buoyant  footsteps,  and  shining 
eyes.  The  lads  in  leather  and  khaki  had  now  found 
their  voices,  which  rang  with  animation. 

So  that  already  was  I  being  instructed  by  the 
experience  which  corrects  surmise.  A  depressing 
opening  had,  at  the  time,  seemed  to  spread  its  bane- 
ful influence  like  an  evil  prophecy  over  the  great  ad- 
venture of  going  to  the  war;  for — as  we  novices 
might  be  excused  for  reasoning — if  all  looked  so 
grey  at  the  start,  how  increasingly  dark  would  we 
not  find  things  on  proceeding  towards  our  goal, 
which  was  like  to  prove  black  indeed ! 

Fallacious  reasoning,  of  course — as  was  shown  by 
that  enthusiastic  embarkation. 

In  the  highest  spirits,  then,  our  enthusiastic  lads 
were  going  forth  to  face  perils  incurred  for  other 
people's  sake.  And,  after  all,  had  not  their  earlier 
oppression  meant  nothing  but  an  impersonal  sor- 
rowing for  Mother,  Dad,  and  the  others?  With 
the  door  now  shut  on  that  domestic  episode,  the  self- 
sacrificing  boys  confronted  only  their  own  risks;  and, 
consequently,  they  were  supremely  content. 

When  you  come  to  think  of  it,  how  could  those 
voluntary  defenders  of  freedom  be  anything  else 


ARRIVAL  IN  FRANCE  65 

but  happy?  Though  we  so  constantly  misjudge  the 
evidences,  eternal  justice  runs  through  all  human 
affairs. 

With  the  voyage  begun,  nobody  (unless  ruled  out 
by  a  sea-sick  tendency)  could  resist  the  contagion 
of  our  young  fellows'  exaltation;  and  I,  for  one, 
certainly  never  crossed  the  Channel  with  my  senses 
tuned  to  a  keener  appreciation  of  the  experience. 

A  blustering  wind  was  blowing,  and  great  grey 
waves  swung  across  our  course;  as  was  all  in  key 
with  the  occasion.  Note,  moreover,  two  picturesque 
facts  belonging  to  the  war;  namely,  the  universal 
putting-on  of  life-belts,  and  the  sight  of  our  naval 
escort  nosing  her  powerful  way  through  the  smoking 
crests. 

On  deck  it  was  my  good  fortune  to  fall  in  with 
several  hearty  British  Columbians  who  had  donned 
the  khaki;  and,  clinging  to  handrails,  we  talked  en- 
thusiastically of  Canada  until  the  heaving  boat 
reached  her  destination. 

Then  we  entered  a  town  which  was  of  double  in- 
terest because  occupied  by  two  peoples.  A  tem- 
porary British  nationality  had  been  superimposed  on 
a  permanent  French  nationality.  The  women,  chil- 
dren, and  shopkeepers  were  native,  while  the  visit- 
ing population  figured  conspicuously  as  khaki  pe- 
destrians strolling  along  the  pavements,  khaki  squads 
busy  at  the  docks,  and  khaki  columns  marching 
through  the  streets  to  camps  on  neighbouring  heights. 

One  is  accustomed  to  think  of  anxiety  and  sor- 
row as  of  merely  individual  or  family  concern;  and 
though  a  son  be  maimed,  or  the  breadwinner  lies 
dead  on  his  bed,  the  community  is  wont  to  pursue 


66  SOULS  IN  KHAKI 

its  unheeding  life  through  normal  channels  of  busi- 
ness, pleasure,  and  frivolity.  But  here  one  found 
a  town  in  tribulation,  with  its  Casino,  hotels,  and 
various  other  institutions  turned  into  hospitals. 

Traversing  the  principal  thoroughfares  with  a 
Salvation  Army  Adjutant,  I  became  vaguely  aware 
that,  for  the  time  being,  this  French  town's  chief 
industry  was  the  care  of  sick  and  wounded  English 
soldiers.  But  at  night  that  knowledge  was  burnt 
upon  my  heart  by  a  series  of  vividly  pathetic  scenes 
belonging  to  the  great  world  drama. 

The  evening  was  far  advanced  when,  returning 
from  Salvation  Army  quarters  established  on  a 
suburban  eminence,  I  was  being  driven  down  into 
the  town,  which,  as  a  precaution  against  air  attacks, 
was  wholly  unillumined.  But,  at  a  bend  in  the  road, 
suddenly  we  saw,  moving  slowly  far  below,  three 
pairs  of  white  lights,  which  shone  like  the  eyes  of 
huge  unseen  dragons  crawling  across  a  valley  of 
darkness. 

"Motor  ambulances,"  explained  my  companion 
(who,  as  it  happened,  superintended  the  large  fleet 
of  Salvation  Army  ambulances  operating  in  the 
British  war  zone).  UA  hospital  train,"  he  added, 
"has  just  arrived  from  the  front." 

Judging  by  their  course,  those  pairs  of  lights 
had  crossed  the  harbour  bridge  and  were  entering 
main  thoroughfares.  Behind  them,  two  other  pairs 
of  lights  now  were  visible. 

As  we  drew  nearer,  and  caught  glimpses  of  the 
commanding  size  of  those  vehicles,  my  imagination 
was  more  and  more  impressed  by  the  significance 
of  their  gentle  pace,  affording,  as  it  did,  so  striking 


ARRIVAL  IN  FRANCE  67 

a  contrast  with  the  thumping  clatter  and  headlong 
speed  to  which  modern  motors  have  accustomed 
us.  It  was  pathetic  to  see  them,  with  abated  power 
and  muffled  noise,  creeping  so  deliberately  through 
the  deserted  streets.  And  the  bright  illumination 
they  cast  upon  the  roadway — there  was  something 
very  touching  in  that  flagrant  violation  of  the  law 
of  darkness.  Air  risks  were  clearly  of  less  moment 
than  the  necessity  to  ensure  for  the  ambulances  a 
•smooth  and  unobstructed  course.  Besides,  if  a  raid- 
ing aeronaut  beheld  those  slow-moving  lights,  would 
not  his  right  arm  be  paralysed  by  pity? 

Every  few  minutes  saw  an  addition  to  the  num- 
ber of  double  gleams  in  the  piteous  procession. 

My  companion,  having  explained  that  the  train 
would  not  yet  be  nearly  unloaded,  agreed  to  take 
me  to  the  railway  terminus,  so  that  I  might  see 
the  wounded  at  close  quarters.  Accordingly,  after 
crossing  the  bridge,  we  were  soon  alighting  from 
our  little  car,  which  was  left  to  await  our  return 
in  the  roadway  it  monopolised.  For  there,  as  else- 
where, the  town  at  that  late  hour  was  a  solitude. 

As  we  walked  across  the  empty  courtyard,  I  re- 
called that,  a  stranger  to  the  sight  of  newly  wounded 
men,  I  had  a  name  for  being  easily  unnerved  in  the 
presence  of  calamity  and  suffering.  Added  to  the 
memory  of  turning  away,  faint  and  shuddering, 
from  street  accidents,  was  the  recollection  of  this 
recent  comment  from  a  little  boy:  "Well,  you're  a 
nice  one  to  be  going  to  the  war!  Why,  the  other 
day  when  I  cut  my  finger  you  turned  quite  pale." 

So,  as  we  passed  through  the  booking  hall,  I 
took  the  precaution  of  warning  the  Adjutant: 


68  SOULS  IN  KHAKI 

"Please  don't  mind  if  I'm  a  bit  upset,  and  make  an 
exhibition  of  myself,  when  we  see  the  poor  chaps." 

Walking  towards  an  illumined  part  of  the  station, 
we  soon  came  upon  the  hospital  train — a  train  of 
specially  constructed  coaches  which,  long  and  lofty, 
shone  with  electric  light,  white  paint,  and  cleanli- 
ness. Besides  a  corridor  entrance  at  either  end,  each 
coach  had  central  sliding  doors,  which,  having  been 
run  back,  gave  us  such  view  of  the  interior  as  re- 
vealed tiers  of  bunks  aligned  on  both  sides.  Along 
the  central  gangway  moved  nurses  (offering  their 
ministrations  here  and  there  among  the  bunks)  and 
figures  in  khaki — i.e.  an  occasional  doctor,  a  few 
dressers,  and  a  number  of  bearers.  From  one  of 
the  bunks  a  burdened  stretcher  would  be  lifted  and 
carried  by  two  bearers  to  the  open  doorway,  there 
to  be  carefully  received  by  another  pair  of  bearers 
standing  on  the  platform.  By  them,  after  they  had 
rested  it  on  the  ground  and  adjusted  their  positions, 
the  stretcher  was  borne  slowly  away  to  another  part 
of  the  station. 

Standing  beside  one  of  the  coaches,  I  glanced  at 
many  stretchers  without  seeing  more  than  recum- 
bent, still  forms  covered  by  blankets.  Each  head 
was  sunk  in  a  pillow,  and — the  night  being  chilly — 
a  blanket  was  drawn  up  to  the  chin.  Beyond  one 
glimpse  of  a  deathly  white  cheek  and  temple,  bor- 
dered by  wet  and  glistening  hair,  I  saw  none  of  the 
faces.  Bandages  round  several  heads  were  visible. 

We  walked  along  the  platform  and  watched  iden- 
tical streams  of  stretchers  slowly  issuing  from  other 
coaches.  It  continued  to  be  the  rule  that  the  cases 
lay  inert,  whether  in  the  train  or  in  transit.  Ex- 


ARRIVAL  IN  FRANCE  69 

ceptions  to  that  rule  were  (i)  arms  moving  on  a 
stretcher  that  passed  me,  and  (2)  glimpses  I  caught 
of  tobacco  smoke  arising  from  a  bunk  on  a  train. 
Otherwise  those  scores  and  scores  of  stricken  men 
and  lads  lay  motionless — all  the  vigour  of  their 
young  manhood  dwindled  to  helpless,  unmoving  fig- 
ures swaddled  in  blankets.  For  the  sake  of  his 
country,  each  had  risked  a  mangled  body — and  in- 
curred it. 

There  seemed  something  appropriate  in  all  this 
occurring  at  night,  when  nobody  was  about.  The 
great  drama  of  a  world-wide  war  was  being  enacted 
in  public;  but  here,  I  felt,  we  were  having  a  peep 
behind  the  scenes.  It  lent  a  special  grimness  to 
the  occasion  that  the  bearers  should  perform  their 
office  with  hushed  voices,  soft  footsteps,  and  grave 
faces. 

Tragedy  is  dumb  show;  warfare  without  any  re- 
deeming touch  of  animation — it  was  indeed  a  gloomy 
scene. 

We  entered  that  unending  stream  of  silent  men 
carrying  their  piteous  burdens,  and  came  presently 
to  an  exterior  length  of  roofed  pavement  which  bor- 
dered an  area  of  roadway  where  many  motor  am- 
bulances had  assembled.  A  long  line  of  them  had 
backed  against  the  kerb,  where,  with  their  hang- 
ings drawn  aside,  they  stood  ready  to  receive  the 
stretchers. 

Meanwhile  the  arriving  cases  were  subjected  to 
individual  scrutiny,  an  officer  putting  some  question 
to  each,  bending  low  to  catch  the  reply,  and,  where 
none  was  forthcoming,  consulting  a  label  attached 
to  the  patient's  clothing.  Information  thus  acquired 


70  SOULS  IN  KHAKI 

was  imparted  to  seated  clerks  who  were  keeping,  or 
checking,  a  register;  and  every  case  was  allocated 
to  a  suitable  hospital,  indicated  in  the  choice  of  am- 
bulance communicated  to  the  bearers. 

Standing  on  the  pavement,  I  found  myself  scruti- 
nising the  nearest  ambulance,  which  wanted  one 
more  case  to  complete  its  complement;  and  while 
my  eyes  were  fixed  on  that  grim  interior,  so  sug- 
gestive of  helplessness  and  suffering,  an  incident  oc- 
curred that  went  far  to  relieve  the  tension  of  my 
thoughts  and  give  me  a  sounder  insight  into  the  pass- 
ing scene. 

There  was  a  movement  in  one  of  the  upper  bunks, 
and,  with  the  aid  of  elbows,  a  lad  raised  himself 
into  a  half-sitting  posture  and  looked  about  him 
with  a  face  of  healthy  colour  lit  up  by  cheerful 
curiosity. 

Here  obviously  was  a  boy  engaged  on  a  wonderful 
adventure.  The  enlistment,  the  training,  the  fight- 
ing, the  wound,  the  railway  journey — everything,  so 
far,  had  been  delightfully  interesting  (his  expres- 
sion seemed  to  indicate  this),  and  now  he  was  all 
agog  to  know  where  he  had  got  to  and  what  was 
going  to  happen  next. 

Incidentally,  I  dare  say,  he  wondered  who  in 
the  world  I  could  be,  standing  there  and  staring  so 
hard;  but  anyway  he  gave  me  a  nod  and  a  smile 
which,  as  has  been  hinted,  were  not  only  human 
and  friendly,  but  reassuring  and  instructive. 

"Ah!"  exclaimed  the  Adjutant,  on  rejoining  me 
after  reporting  to  an  officer  what  were  my  credentials 
and  business,  "so  I  see  you  are  inspecting  one  of 
our  ambulances" — whereupon,  glancing  at  the  side 


ARRIVAL  IN  FRANCE  71 

of  the  vehicle,  I  saw  it  was  inscribed  "The  Salvation 
Army" — words  which  somehow  seemed  in  key  with 
the  happy  look  on  the  face  of  the  wounded  lad. 

"Suppose  we  now  go  and  see  the  sitting  cases, " 
added  the  Adjutant.  "For,  you  know,  the  wounded 
are  divided,  from  the  ambulance  point  of  view,  into 
two  classes — stretcher  cases  and  sitting  cases.  Seri- 
ous injuries,  as  well  as  slight  injuries,  are  found  in 
both  groups.  A  man  may  be  badly  hit  in  the  body, 
arms,  or  head,  and  yet  be  able  to  walk;  in  which 
case  he  will  travel  as  a  sitter.  On  the  other  hand, 
a  man's  wound  may  be  unimportant  and  yet  so  situ- 
ated that  it  is  impossible  or  inadvisable  for  him  to 
use  his  feet,  so  he  becomes  a  stretcher  case." 

Proceeding  to  another  part  of  the  station,  we 
almost  immediately  happened  upon  one  of  the 
most  pathetic  and  impressive  sights  that  my  eyes 
have  ever  beheld.  It  was  a  motionless,  irregular 
queue  of  muddied,  unkempt,  wounded  men — men 
whose  injuries  had  been  washed  and  dressed  behind 
the  firing  line,  but  whose  condition  otherwise  was 
that  in  which  they  had  left  the  trenches. 

The  Adjutant  said  most  of  them  would  have 
been  wounded  since  I  arrived  in  France.  In  other 
words,  when,  a  few  hours  before,  I  was  travelling 
down  from  Victoria,  they  were  strong  and  hearty, 
bearing  arms,  with  elastic  footsteps,  expanding  lungs, 
and  buoyant  spirits.  Now  they  were  shattered, 
limp,  and  feeble  invalids. 

Without  rifles,  or  haversacks,  or  belts;  in  torn, 
cut,  dirty,  half-unbuttoned  tunics;  with  bandaged 
heads  and  arms  in  slings;  with  faces  drawn  and 
pale  from  shock  and  loss  of  blood — there  stood  some 


72  SOULS  IN  KHAKI 

scores  of  Great  Britain's  defenders,  in  an  aspect 
the  more  noble  because  lacking  every  outward  sym- 
bol of  nobility.  To  look  at  them,  those  stricken 
champions  of  freedom  might  almost  have  been  a 
string  of  squalid  tramps. 

By  what  a  strangely  ironic  fate  they  were  stand- 
ing there  all  alone  in  that  spacious  railway  hall, 
when  millions  of  British  men  and  women,  with  hearts 
full  of  love  and  gratitude,  would  have  deemed  no 
trouble  too  high  a  price  for  the  opportunity  of  ac- 
claiming, thanking,  and  serving  them. 

We  all  know  our  wounded  lads  at  the  later  stage 
of  blue  suits,  their  faces  testifying  to  soap  and  water, 
happiness,  and  restored  health.  It  was  a  higher 
privilege  to  see  them  at  that  early  stage,  when 
their  glory  seemed  the  greater  for  their  grime. 

While  we  stood  there,  the  queue  resumed  its 
progress,  which  proved  somewhat  sluggish,  many 
footsteps  dragging  heavily.  A  tall  man  with 
bandaged  eyes  groped  with  outstretched  hands,  as- 
sisted by  guiding  pressure  from  a  left-arm  casualty 
walking  beside  him. 

Proceeding  in  the  opposite  direction,  we  came  to 
the  train's  foremost  section,  where  sitting  cases  had 
alighted  from  ordinary  first-class  coaches.  Retrac- 
ing our  steps,  and  proceeding  in  the  other  direction, 
we  came  to  an  area  of  roadway  where  those  cases 
were  accommodated  in  motor  omnibuses. 

And  thus  we  realised  the  great  advantage,  in  an 
economy  of  ambulance  space,  which  sitting  cases 
possessed  over  stretcher  cases;  nor,  obviously,  did 
our  unselfish  lads  begrudge  the  deprivation  of  ease 
involved  in  the  alternative. 


ARRIVAL  IN  FRANCE  73 

Nay,  thinking  about  the  demeanour  of  those  lads, 
and  reflecting  that  they  showed  no  impatience  at 
their  mode  of  travelling,  I  began  to  marvel  that 
they  showed  no  impatience  under  a  far  heavier  prov- 
ocation. For  it  suddenly  occurred  to  me  that,  though 
they  were  suffering  the  pain,  aches,  nausea,  and 
heightened  temperature  resulting  from  wounds  and 
shocks,  yet  I  had  heard  no  moan,  groan,  or  word 
of  lamentation  escape  from  one  of  them.  Nay  (for 
I  walked  along  a  further  queue  to  find  out)  those 
fine  fellows  neither  uttered  any  sound  of  complaint 
nor  bewailed  their  lot  by  look  or  gesture. 

Unselfishness  had  provided  a  great  opportunity 
for  fortitude.  The  tragedy  was  swallowed  up  in 
glory. 


CHAPTER  V 

VISITING  THE  WOUNDED 

In  a  transformed  Casino — The  man  of  many  wounds:  a  smile 
framed  by  lint — Captors  of  the  Bluff — Irrepressible  invalids — 
Map-making  on  a  bed  quilt — Heroes  in  their  teens — A  blushing 
British  soldier — "We  young  chaps  are  just  as  brave" — Cud- 
dling the  Bible:  a  story  left  untold — A  man  without  hands — 
The  Salvationist  lass  and  the  cigarette — Studies  in  gratitude — 
At  the  Canadian  hospital — Death-bed  rapture — Looking  into 
a  mother's  eyes — Gasping  and  chatting — A  letter  to  Aunty — 
Salvationist  sisters:  welcome  friends  and  messengers — Unself- 
ish crusaders  meet. 

GOING  next  morning,  with  two  Salvationist  sisters, 
to  visit  the  Casino,  I  stood  in  a  tiled  corridor  before 
great  glass  doors — on  the  threshold  of  new  ex- 
periences. 

A  clean,  bright  foreground  of  beds  and  whiteness 
and  pillowed  heads,  with  busy  nurses  in  dainty  uni- 
forms, the  atmosphere  charged  with  sunshine  and 
iodoform,  while,  visible  through  the  encircling  win- 
dows, was  a  background  of  sea  and  sky  in  two  glori- 
ous shades  of  blue — such  was  my  impression  of  the 
whole.  But  soon  I  was  looking  at  a  part. 

Three  nurses  were  bending  over  a  bed.  Having 
just  covered  the  patient's  right  foot,  they  removed 
and  replaced  bandages  that  swathed  his  left  knee; 
then,  after  attending  to  a  chest  wound,  they  re- 
dressed areas  of  flesh  on  the  lower  part  of  one 

74 


VISITING  THE  WOUNDED  75 

arm  and  the  upper  part  of  the  other;  at  the  con- 
clusion of  which  task  one  nurse  proceeded  to  treat 
the  right  hand,  and  the  other  two  nurses  departed, 
leaving  me  with  an  unobstructed  view  of  the  man's 
head,  which  was  enveloped  in  bandages  save  for  a 
circular  space  that  left  his  eyes,  nose,  and  mouth 
uncovered. 

And  this  is  the  amazing  fact  to  which  I  am  lead- 
ing: a  sustained  merry  smile  was  framed  within 
that  round  hole  cut  in  the  white  mask. 

Please  note  that  the  war  was  producing  phenomena 
which  flatly  contradicted  ordinary  experience.  It  is 
a  matter  of  common  knowledge  that  lacerated  flesh 
and  broken  bones  cause  physical  suffering,  which 
finds  expression  in  moaning,  ejaculations,  and  grim- 
aces. Yet  overnight  I  had  seen  hundreds  of  wounded 
men  who,  without  exception,  were  complacent;  and 
here  we  found  smiles  on  the  lips  of  a  man  who  was 
injured  in  head,  body,  and  all  his  limbs — perchance 
the  man  of  fifteen  wounds  who  was  so  tenderly  con- 
veyed in  a  Salvation  Army  ambulance. 

We  pushed  open  the  great  glass  doors  and  en- 
tered. The  Salvationists  at  once  visited  beds  in  a 
row  skirting  the  left-hand  wall.  Other  rows  ran 
in  other  directions,  and  for  a  moment  I  stood  look- 
ing about  me,  uncertain  in  which  direction  to  proceed. 
Then  my  gaze  met  that  of  a  brown-skinned  man 
whose  friendly  eyes  as  good  as  asked  me  to  go  and 
talk  to  him. 

"Hullo,  old  chap,  and  how  are  you?"  next  minute 
I  was  blurting  out,  not  having  bethought  me  of  suit- 
able words  wherewith  to  greet  a  wounded  com- 
patriot met  in  hospital  on  foreign  soil. 


76  SOULS  IN  KHAKI 

"Fine,  thanks.  How's  yourself  ?"  he  replied,  and 
then  rattled  on :  "I  say,  d'you  know  we  took  the 
Bluff!  Talk  about  a  neat  job — why,  inside  twenty 
minutes  all  the  fighting  was  over,  and  we'd  won  back 
what  we'd  held  before  and  more  trenches  besides. 
We  fairly  took  'em  by  surprise,  and  up  went  their 
hands.  'Mercy!  Mercy!  Camerade!'  they  cried." 

He  hardly  gave  himself  time  for  coherent  articu- 
lation, and  soon  it  was  as  though,  in  his  eagerness, 
he  had  found  a  means  of  pouring  forth  two  streams 
of  detail  at  one  and  the  same  time.  But  I  turned 
to  find  that  the  supplementary  information  was  com- 
ing from  a  man  in  the  next  bed. 

"Some  of  the  boys,"  he  was  exclaiming,  "went 
right  on — farther  than  they  ought,  in  fact.  But 
they  were  wild  with  delight  to  be  out  on  the  top 
for  once.  We  had  got  our  chance  at  last,  and  we 
made  the  most  of  it.  You  see,  the  'International' 
trench  goes  this  way";  and,  having  struggled  into 
a  sitting  position,  he  began  a  little  map-making  on 
the  bed  quilt. 

By  which  time  the  infection  had  spread  to  his 
neighbour  on  the  other  side. 

"That's  right,"  exclaimed  the  third  enthusiast. 
"We've  stopped  their  enfilading  fire.  It  came  from 
a  circular  trench  on  the  left.  But  that's  in  our  hands 


now." 


Of  course  I  gave  them  a  good  scolding. 

"The  idea  of  exciting  yourselves  like  this !  Don't 
you  know  that  you  are  wounded,  and  that  you  are 
invalids,  and  that  you've  got  to  keep  quiet?  You 
lie  down  at  once,  sir." 

Thus  admonished,  the  worst  offender  wriggled 


VISITING  THE  WOUNDED  77 

back,  somewhat  shamefaced,  into  a  recumbent  posi- 
tion. 

"Where  did  you  get  hit?"  I  asked,  while  ad- 
justing the  bedclothes  about  his  shoulders. 

"Two  in  the  left  leg,"  he  humbly  replied. 

"Anything  in  the  paper  about  our  fight?"  coax- 
ingly  inquired  my  oldest  friend  in  the  group. 

"Yes,"  I  admitted,  "a  lot.  And  everybody  is 
tremendously  proud  of  you.  Still,"  I  sternly  added, 
"you're  not  to  think  any  more  about  it.  Fill  your 
minds  with  pleasant  thoughts  and  get  well  as  soon 
as  possible — that's  your  present  job." 

It  chanced  that,  while  I  was  uttering  these  homi- 
lies, my  eyes  alighted  on  an  attractive,  smiling  face 
in  a  row  of  beds  some  way  off.  Instinct  took  me 
to  that  face,  which,  from  being  youthful  in  the  dis- 
tance, became  downright  boyish  near  at  hand. 

"But,"  was  my  involuntary  exclamation,  "surely 
you  are  not  eighteen?" 

"I  am  nowl"  he  beamingly  replied. 

"Yes,  but  when  you  joined !" 

"Oh,  well,"  he  replied,  brazening  it  out,  "I  didn't 
want  to  miss  the  chance — and,  you  see,  I  was  strong 
for  my  age — and,  and,  well,  I  knew  I'd  be  eighteen 
in  ten  months'  time." 

"And  how  long  have  you  been  in  hospital?"  For 
his  high  spirits  hinted  at  convalescence. 

"We  only  came  in  last  night." 

"I  say,"  exclaimed  an  exuberant  voice  behind  me, 
"do  you  know  we've  taken  the  Bluff?  Isn't  it  sim- 
ply ripping!" 

Turning,  I  beheld,  on  the  next  bed,  a  still  more 
juvenile  face. 


78  SOULS  IN  KHAKI 

"Why,  you  naughty  boy!"  I  exclaimed.  "What 
are  you  doing  in  the  British  Army?" 

Whereupon  (partly  because  of  the  irregularity  of 
his  attestation,  but  mainly  from  sheer  gratification) 
that  wounded  British  soldier  blushed. 

If  only  his  mother  and  his  father  could  have  seen 
him!  Ah,  if  all  the  mothers  and  fathers  could  but 
see  their  wounded,  undaunted  darlings — young 
Britain  in  arms  for  liberty,  yet  still  with  silky  down 
above  its  laughing  lips ! 

I  could  not  forbear  leaning  over  him  and  whis- 
pering, as  a  sort  of  message  from  the  mothers  and 
fathers  of  our  Empire: 

"You  brave,  brave  little  boy." 

"Oh,  well,"  he  replied,  with  shining  eyes,  "the 
men  say  we  are  just  as  brave  as  they  are.  And  we 
are,  too!" 

Here  one  of  the  Salvationist  sisters  came,  and, 
drawing  me  aside,  said: 

"There's  a  man  over  there  who  is  holding  a  Bible, 
and  he  says  it  saved  his  life.  I  don't  know  in  what 
way  he  means,  but  I  thought  you  would  like  to  hear 
his  story.  Then  do  you  see  that  last  case  on  the 
next  line  to  this?  He  does  so  appreciate  having 
somebody  to  talk  to,  and  if  you  could  spare  him  a 
little  time  he  says  he  would  be  ever  so  grateful.  I 
stayed  as  long  as  I  dared,  but  the  others  think  it's 
rather  unkind  if  one  doesn't  save  a  little  time  for 
them.  The  poor  chap  has  lost  both  hands,  and, 
I'm  afraid,  cannot  recover." 

"I  say,"  exclaimed  the  senior  lad,  seeing  me  about 
to  depart,  "you'll  come  again  and  talk  to  us,  won't 
you?" 


VISITING  THE  WOUNDED  79 

"Yes — do!n  impetuously  broke  in  the  junior  lad. 
"It's  awfully  jolly  having  visitors,  you  know." 

UA11  right,  little  boys — I'll  try  to.  Be  quick  and 
get  well.  Good-bye." 

Then  I  went  to  a  white-faced  man  who,  breath- 
ing evenly,  with  closed  eyes,  was  hugging  a  Bible 
against  his  neck. 

"You've  got  a  good  friend  there,"  I  said. 

He  did  not  open  his  eyes.  Instinctively  I  bent 
my  head  to  catch  any  whispered  reply.  Soon  came 
the  faintly  articulated  words: 

"It   saved   my  life." 

He  looked  to  be  about  forty,  but  spoke  in  the 
gentle  accents  of  a  child — a  drowsy  child. 

"Ah,  you  are  very,  very  sleepy,  aren't  you?" 

"Yes,"  he  murmured;  and  I  softly  withdrew  to 
the  maimed  man  who  was  probably  dying. 

He  had  been  in  hospital  for  some  time,  and  al- 
ready (as  was  to  be  revealed)  had  woven  a  web 
of  new  expedients  about  his  crippled  life. 

My  eyes  rested  in  some  wonderment  upon  the 
half-consumed  cigarette  lying  on  his  table,  and  he 
made  haste  to  tell  me,  with  pleasure  sparkling  in 
his  eyes,  that  the  Salvation  Army  lady  had,  by  kindly 
lending  her  hands  to  the  business,  enabled  him  to 
smoke. 

"That  was  a  great  treat,"  he  said,  "because,  you 
see,  it  isn't  often  the  orderlies  are  able  to  do  it 
for  me.  I  take  up  too  much  of  their  time  without 
that.  They  come  and  feed  me  at  meals ;  and  you've 
no  idea  how  patient  and  kind  they  are." 

It  was  natural  to  offer  a  continuation  of  the  ap- 
preciated service. 


80  SOULS  IN  KHAKI 

"No,  thank  you,"  he  replied,  "I  don't  think  I'll 
smoke  any  more,  because  it's  very  nearly  tea  time"; 
and,  indeed,  a  distribution  of  cups,  eggs,  and  bread 
and  butter  had  already  commenced  in  the  ward. 

So  there  was  an  alternative  opportunity  of  serv- 
ing him,  and  I  had  the  privilege  of  placing  food  to 
his  mouth.  This  was  to  gain  experience,  and  re- 
ceive instruction,  in  a  matter  which  the  patient  had 
wellnigh  reduced  to  a  science.  The  fragments  of 
buttered  bread  should  be  of  such  and  such  a  size; 
a  slight  nod  would  signal  his  readiness  for  more; 
an  emphatic  nod  meant  egg;  by  gently  pressing 
against  the  special  teacup,  he  would  request  its  with- 
drawal; and  so  on. 

Obviously  he  enjoyed  his  meal.  Moreover,  he 
clearly  took  a  sort  of  pride  in  the  method  of  its 
administration,  and  in  the  smooth  working  of  that 
method.  And  all  the  time  the  peaceful  mind  of 
that  stricken  soldier  was  full  of  gratitude. 

Think  of  it:  he  had  given  his  limbs,  and  he  was 
giving  his  life,  for  others;  and  when  anybody  in 
return  rendered  him,  in  his  helplessness,  some 
trifling  service  that  cost  nothing,  he  had  a  thankful 
sense  of  being  greatly  favoured. 

The  rules  of  logic  do  not  apply.  We  can  but 
accept  the  wonderful  fact  that,  because  divine  jus- 
tice is  infallible,  this  self-sacrificing  soldier  was  tran- 
quil and  happy.  A  sustaining  grace — those  perhaps 
are  the  words  that  best  fit  the  phenomenon.  We 
cannot  see  the  angels;  we  see  only  those  whom  their 
wings  support. 

But  inevitably  that  conclusion  is  partly  based  on 
experiences  that  came  three  days  later,  when,  at  an- 


VISITING  THE  WOUNDED  81 

other  British  base,  I  visited  a  fine  hospital  built  and 
equipped  by  Canadian  money. 

My  escort  on  that  occasion  was  a  tall,  strong, 
motherly  Salvationist  who  was  overflowing  with 
love  and  laughter,  and  whose  sympathy  was  so 
powerfully  engaged  by  each  of  the  wounded  sol- 
diers that  they  all  gave  her  their  friendship  and 
confidence. 

Chiefly  did  I  linger  beside  the  beds  of  three  who 
were  dying — obviously,  and,  I  think,  consciously 
dying. 

Two  lay  inert  in  an  advanced  stage  of  physical 
feebleness;  but  patient  smiles  came  into  their 
shrunken  faces  of  white  transparent  flesh.  And  in 
one  case  the  lad's  smiles  had  a  supreme  provoca- 
tion. For  (granted  facilities  by  the  War  Office) 
his  mother  arrived  just  before  we  left;  but  as  she 
held  his  hand,  and  he  looked  into  her  eyes,  the  rap- 
ture on  his  face  was  much  like  the  peace  that  had 
shone  there  before. 

To  the  third  case  my  attention  was  called  by  the 
Salvationist  sister,  who  explained  that  he  wanted 
some  letter-writing  done  for  him.  This  was  a  man 
who,  because  his  lungs  had  been  torn  by  shrapnel, 
maintained  a  broken  gasp  that  was  painfully  audi- 
ble throughout  the  ward;  and  every  now  and  then 
he  had  to  staunch  blood  overflowing  from  his  mouth. 
Any  one,  therefore,  who  judged  merely  from  ex- 
ternals, might  well  have  imagined  the  patient  to 
be  in  misery.  It  was  not  so.  We  had  a  long  chat 
(yes;  although  every  third  word  or  so  was  inter- 
rupted by  that  grievous  panting,  he  was  able  to 


82  SOULS  IN  KHAKI 

chat) ,  and  I  found  his  mental  outlook  composed  and 
comfortable. 

True,  the  inability  to  communicate  with  his  peo- 
ple had  been  a  weight  on  his  mind;  but  that  trou- 
ble was  now  past. 

"Thank  you  so  much,"  he  gratefully  replied,  when 
I  volunteered  to  write  on  his  behalf.  "I  should 
like  to  send  a  letter  to  my  Aunty" — a  request  sound- 
ing strangely  on  the  lips  of  a  man  who  looked  to 
be  over  thirty;  and  it  will  indicate  how  far  his  ar- 
ticulation was  affected  when  I  mention  that  one  word 
in  his  aunt's  address  ("Clock-face" — the  name  of 
her  road),  because  wholly  unfamiliar  to  my  ears, 
proved  difficult  to  communicate. 

I  asked  if  there  were  any  one  else  to  whom  he 
wished  a  letter  sent. 

"Yes,  if  it  wouldn't  be  troubling  you  too  much. 
I'd  like  my  sister  to  know."  After  giving  her  name 
and  address,  he  added:  "Tell  them  I've  got  a 
wound  in  my  right  shoulder  and  left  side,  and  tell 
them  my  right  arm  is  paralysed,  so  I  can't  use  it." 

"For,  indeed,  his  body  was  a  shattered  wreck.  But 
the  real  man  revealed  himself  as  something  within, 
yet  apart  from,  his  body;  and  the  real  man  was  tran- 
quil, self-possessed,  and  thoughtful  for  others. 

"I  was  talking  to  him  about  his  soul,"  the  Sal- 
vationist sister  afterwards  told  me.  "He  is  beau- 
tifully prepared  to  go." 

Nor  can  I  forbear,  in  this  connection,  from  re- 
ferring to  the  glad  and  tender  relationship  that 
everywhere  was  visible  between  the  Salvationist  sis- 
ter and  our  wounded  soldiers. 

She  is  of  the  supremely  happy  number  who,  in 


VISITING  THE  WOUNDED  83 

renouncing  passing  pleasures,  have  found  abiding 
joy.  The  stricken  men  and  lads  watch  wistfully, 
eagerly,  while  from  bed  to  bed  she  passes  as  a  bright 
presence,  bearing  flowers  and  chocolate  in  her  hands 
and  a  message  in  her  heart. 

In  those  hospitals  across  the  Channel  I  have  seen 
her  in  several  personalities,  as  girl  and  as  matron, 
varying  in  age,  social  standing,  and  degree  of  experi- 
ence, but  never  was  any  difference  apparent  either 
in  the  visitor's  eager  friendship  for  the  wounded 
soldier  or  the  wounded  soldier's  grateful  welcome 
for  the  visitor. 

They  make  an  inspiring  picture,  he  and  she — each 
a  voluntary  crusader  in  an  unselfish  cause;  and  he 
finds  her  very  human  and  kind,  and  her  tidings  of 
salvation  most  timely. 


CHAPTER  VI 

FIRST  TASTE  OF  WARFARE 

-A  personal  confession — Preliminary  excursions  from  G.H.Q. — 
Graduated  doses  of  danger — A  disappointing  hill — Shattered 
liousefronts — Impressive  preparations:  maps,  binoculars,  and  a 
lunch-basket — The  fraternal  War  Correspondent — An  unal- 
tered countryside — Within  sight  and  sound  of  gun-fire — Peace 
and  war,  mixed — Shells  bursting  overhead:  a  dainty  spec- 
tacle— Our  ascent  of  the  fosse — Watching  an  air  fight — Atten- 
tions from  a  German  battery — Retreating  with  the  lunch- 
basket — A  shower  of  bullets — Seeking  shelter — Water  tanks  or 
gasometers? 

CONCERNING  myself  I  made  early  in  this  book  two 
statements  which,  though  literally  true,  might  seem, 
at  a  superficial  glance,  somewhat  conflicting. 

I  confessed  to  having  ever  regarded  myself  as  a 
physical  coward,  and  I  announced  an  eagerness  to 
visit  the  Front.  Nor  would  it  be  correct  to  say 
that  the  desire  was  entertained  in  spite  of  the  disa- 
bility. It  would  be  less  incorrect  to  say  that  the 
desire  was  entertained  because  of  the  disability. 

This  book,  you  will  remember,  was  to  embody 
an  investigation  into  the  effects  on  human  emotions 
and  character  of  war  dangers  and  the  imminence 
of  death;  and  there  was  one  witness  whose  testi- 
mony promised  to  be  of  special  value,  inasmuch  as 
I  could  first,  humanly  speaking,  choose  his  experi- 

84 


FIRST  TASTE  OF  WARFARE  85 

ences  and  then  command  his  fullest  confidences — 
that  witness  being  myself;  and  from  this  point  of 
view  it  was  useful  that,  instead  of  being  a  reckless 
hero  accustomed  to  live  a  hazardous  life,  I  had  al- 
ways shrunk  from  the  thought  of  bloodshed  and 
warfare  with  twitching  nerves  and  a  sickened 
heart.  From  merely  the  thought  of  it,  mind  youl 

How  came  it,  then — you  are  entitled  to  ask — that 
I  eagerly  looked  forward  actually  to  undergo  an 
experience  which,  when  only  a  matter  of  the  imagi- 
nation, had  filled  me  with  dread? 

I  want  frankly,  humbly,  gratefully  to  acknowledge 
that,  from  the  first,  this  adventure  of  going  to  the 
Front  was  recognised  by  me  as  impossible  to  be 
undertaken  in  any  spirit  of  self-reliance — of  inse- 
cure dependence  on  one's  own  poor  powers  of  for- 
titude. I  knew  that  I  could,  should,  and  would  lean 
my  full  weight  on  the  promise  of  everlasting  se- 
curity given  to  dutiful  mortals.  I  knew  that  my 
destiny  in  the  hazard  would  be  moulded  by  divine 
love,  and  that  I  could  safely  go  into  the  enterprise 
without  forethought  or  fear — with  no  preparation 
beyond  accustomed  prayer.  For  I  knew  that  to  be 
shot  and  killed  is  the  most  trivial  of  insignificant 
incidents,  when  you  are  sure  that  angel  hosts  are 
waiting,  with  outstretched  welcoming  arms,  on  the 
other  side  of  the  sense  barriers. 

And  now,  having  paved  the  way  with  that  con- 
fession (necessary  for  purposes  of  future  reference) , 
I  will  describe  the  circumstances  under  which  Ger- 
man gunners  first  fired  some  of  their  apparatus  of 
war  at — or,  anyhow,  near — me. 

As  a  prelude  to  my  greater  freedom  of  action, 


86  SOULS  IN  KHAKI 

General  Headquarters  sent  me  out  by  car  on  sev- 
eral occasions  under  the  escort  of  a  Press  officer; 
namely,  one  of  those  experienced  subalterns  who  are 
charged  with  the  special  responsibility  of  pilot- 
ing journalists,  and  other  visitors,  about  the  Front. 

We  began  by  visiting  a  town  perched  on  an 
eminence,  whence  on  clear  days  a  view  was  afforded 
of  the  distant  firing  line.  But  our  arrival  occurred 
in  misty  weather,  and  as  the  guns  sounded  faint,  and 
the  people  of  that  town  seemed  drowsily  indifferent 
to  all  save  their  peaceful  daily  affairs,  I  got  no 
thrill  from  my  sojourn  on  that  hill. 

On  another  occasion  we  drove  through  a  town 
which  afforded  the  grim  spectacle  of  several  house- 
fronts  which  had  been  shattered  by  aerial  bombs — 
and  this  was  getting  nearer  to  the  real  thing. 

Then  came  the  adventure  which  I  am  about  to 
describe,  and  which  gave  early  promise  of  special 
interest;  for  a  note  of  organised  preparation  en- 
tered into  our  departure  that  morning  from  Gen- 
eral Haig's  headquarters. 

To  begin  with,  an  orderly  deposited  in  the  car 
a  lunch-basket  overflowing  with  goodly  viands  that 
looked  to  be  a  liberal  provision  for  at  least  three 
persons — which  proved  to  be  the  number  the  ca- 
terer had  had  in  mind.  For  my  attentive  Press  offi- 
cer came  this  time  accompanied  by  the  War  Cor- 
respondent of  a  London  newspaper,  who,  it  seemed, 
because  well  acquainted  with  the  district  to  be  vis- 
ited, had  been  asked,  and  had  very  kindly  con- 
sented, to  give  us  the  pleasure  of  his  company,  and 
the  advantage  of  his  topographical  knowledge  on 
our  excursion. 


FIRST  TASTE  OF  WARFARE  87 

Young,  well-built,  and  of  soldierly  smartness,  the 
War  Correspondent  looked  very  dashing  in  a  khaki 
uniform  differing  from  that  of  an  officer  only  in 
the  lack  of  regimental  badges  and  emblems  of  rank. 

For  the  rest,  he  gave  evidence  of  a  fraternal 
spirit  by  exhibiting  two  fine  pairs  of  binoculars  and 
explaining  that,  thinking  I  might  be  unprovided  with 
facilities  for  long-distance  observation  (which,  in- 
deed, was  a  correct  surmise)  he  had  brought  those 
instruments  for  our  joint  use. 

Then  we  entered  the  car  and  soon  were  swiftly 
gliding  through  the  smart  quietude  of  rural  France, 
which  must  not  be  pictured  as  presenting — outside 
an  area  of  several  miles  from  the  firing  line — any 
external  indication  (except  for  troops  and  transport 
occasionally  encountered  on  the  road)  that  a  war 
was  in  progress.  Hens  clucked  and  cowslips  bloomed 
just  as  though  nothing  were  the  matter.  Nay,  chil- 
dren still  ran  and  played,  and  old  dames  stood  gos- 
siping at  the  gate. 

After  passing  through  Bethune,  we  went  south- 
east, traversing  several  villages,  and  so  drawing  near 
to  the  zone  of  fighting.  Arriving  at  a  mining  cen- 
tre occurring  on  a  broad  highroad,  where  some  holed 
and  shattered  walls  could  be  seen,  the  authorities 
arrested  our  car  with  an  intimation  that  it  must 
proceed  no  farther.  We  accordingly  alighted,  and 
while  my  companions  conferred  together,  I  took 
stock  of  our  surroundings. 

What  one  beheld  was  neither  peace  nor  war,  be- 
cause both.  There  was  the  loud  noise  of  gunfire — 
as  if  occurring  in  the  next  street — and  exploding 
shells  were  visible  overhead.  On  the  other  hand, 


88  SOULS  IN  KHAKI 

the  civilian  population  were  not  only  minding  their 
own  business  and  taking  no  notice,  but  (it  was  Sun- 
day, at  noon,  with  the  sun  shining)  miners  stood 
complacently  in  their  shirt  sleeves,  doing  nothing, 
infants  sprawled  at  the  doorways,  and  older  chil- 
dren were  running  and  whooping,  absorbed  in  their 
mild  sports. 

It  was  almost  like  looking  at  two  different  moving 
pictures  that  had  been  taken  by  mistake  on  the  same 
film. 

At  first  my  attention  was  claimed  chiefly  by  some- 
thing in  the  sky  I  had  not  seen  there  before.  A  small 
cloud  of  smoke  appeared  abruptly — like  a  blob  of 
fleecy  cotton  wool  shining  daintily  against  the  blue. 
Then,  in  quick  succession,  others  appeared — the 
heavens  in  that  area  breaking  into  a  veritable  rash 
of  white  eruptions. 

"Ah,"  the  War  Correspondent  turned  to  explain, 
on  noting  my  interest,  "that's  shrapnel  bursting. 
Pretty,  isn't  it?  German  anti-aircraft  guns  are  shell- 
ing one  of  our  planes.  There  she  is"  (and  he  point- 
ed). "They  are  shooting  rather  wide,  you  will 


notice." 


Searching  the  azure  intently,  I  saw  the  gauzy 
insect  flying  away  from  the  cluster  of  tiny  cumulus 
clouds. 

Then  my  attention  returned  to  the  surrounding 
little  community,  which  was  remarkable  for  behaving 
precisely  as  such  a  little  community  behaves  under 
normal  conditions.  Those  people  looked  as  if  they 
had  been  bewitched  into  an  ignorance  of  what  was 
happening  round  about  them.  By  way  of  finishing 
touch  to  the  tranquil  scene,  two  little  urchins,  mov- 


FIRST  TASTE  OF  WARFARE  89 

ing  along  the  roadway,  hawked  Paris  newspapers 
with  shrill  persistency.  Near  the  railing  of  a  gar- 
den, I  saw  an  old  man  sweeping  the  road,  and  do- 
ing so  with  leisurely  thoroughness,  as  though  his 
whole  mind  were  given  to  the  work. 

In  a  word,  I  beheld  conditions  that  burlesqued 
those  I  expected  to  find  in  the  war  zone.  Faced 
by  such  public  indifference,  it  seemed  difficult  to  un- 
derstand how  the  peoples  of  two  countries  could 
go  on  fighting  one  another.  In  many  villages  of 
England,  I  think,  the  distant  war  at  that  moment 
would  have  been  exciting  a  more  lively  interest  than 
was  manifested  there,  where  the  people  lived  amid 
sights,  sounds,  and  smells  of  the  actual  conflict.  For 
distance  lends  excitement  to  the  view,  and  familiarity 
breeds  a  sort  of  boredom. 

But,  whatever  might  be  the  attitude  of  others, 
to  my  companions  and  myself  the  war  continued  to 
be  of  absorbing  interest.  Carrying  between  us 
lunch,  maps,  and  binoculars,  the  Correspondent  and 
I  proceeded  on  foot  to  a  mine  shaft,  where  we  were 
presently  joined  by  the  Press  officer,  who  had  mean- 
while reported  our  arrival  and  programme  to  the 
local  military  command.  And  with  no  great  fa- 
vour, it  seemed,  did  the  local  command  look  upon 
that  programme,  though  disapproval  had  happily 
not  gone  the  length  of  a  veto. 

Mining  operations  had  brought  to  the  surface  a 
huge  quantity  of  material  for  which  there  was  no 
occasion,  and  which,  accordingly,  had  been  built  into 
a  heap  which  had  grown,  with  the  lapse  of  time, 
to  a  considerable  altitude.  Knowing  of  the  fine 
view  commanded  by  this  fosse,  the  War  Correspond- 


90  SOULS  IN  KHAKI 

ent  had  hit  upon  the  excellent  idea  that  we  should 
mount  to  its  summit  and  there  picnic  within  sight 
of  the  battle  front. 

Up  the  steep  incline  we  toiled,  and  when  at 
length  the  full  ascent  was  accomplished,  all  sense  of 
fatigue  quickly  subsided  in  the  pleasure  with  which 
I  looked  out  on  the  vast  stretch  of  green  landscape 
that  lay  below. 

Detail  for  the  most  part  was  tiny  but  well-defined: 
ruddy  specks  for  buildings,  a  pin-point  of  yellow 
for  a  haystack,  a  spider's  thread  for  a  road,  a  hazy 
smudge  for  a  village  or  small  town.  There  was 
nothing  to  show  that  any  part  of  the  area,  or  any 
of  its  raised  objects,  had  been  knocked  about. 

That  landscape  had  an  empty  and  deserted  look. 
Of  the  Germans  and  Britishers  who  were  burrowed 
there  in  their  tens  of  thousands,  one  saw  no  sign. 
Nor,  even  in  the  nearest  fields,  were  any  sheep  or 
cattle  visible. 

Of  the  war  there  were  only  two  indications.  Faint 
zig-zag  markings  across  some  fields  were  identified 
as  trenches.  From  various  quarters  came  the  report 
of  cannon,  differing  in  volume  according  to  distance, 
and  in  some  cases  preceded  by  a  tiny  flash  (which 
one  saw  if  one  happened  to  be  looking  at  the  right 
spot  at  the  right  time). 

But  before  I  had  fully  grasped  leading  features 
of  the  landscape,  and  realised  which  was  Loos,  and 
which  Lens,  and  where  was  the  Hohenzollern  Re- 
doubt, the  vigilant  War  Correspondent  bade  me 
direct  my  gaze  aloft. 

Some  half-dozen  of  our  aeroplanes  were  boldly 
advancing  to  observe  what  was  happening  along  the 


FIRST  TASTE  OF  WARFARE  91 

German  lines.  In  their  vicinity  the  glowing  sky  was 
mottled  with  exploding  shells,  no  doubt  discharged 
in  the  alternative  hope,  if  not  of  bringing  them  down, 
then  of  driving  them  up. 

Suddenly,  as  if  from  nowhere,  eight  German  ma- 
chines appeared  in  the  heavens. 

The  little  artificial  clouds  were  sluggishly  expand- 
ing into  indefined  shapelessness,  and  no  new  ones 
appeared.  Neither  Army  could  shell  the  hostile 
aircraft,  for  fear  of  hitting  its  own.  It  remained 
for  the  airmen  to  do  their  own  fighting. 

The  War  Correspondent  was  delighted;  but 
mainly,  I  think,  on  my  account. 

"You  are  indeed  lucky,"  he  cried.  "There's  a 
great  strafe  on.  I've  seen  nothing  like  this  for  days. 
The  weather  has  been  too  cloudy.  Now  you  will 
see  something.  Our  machines  are  outnumbered.  But 
do  you  think  they  will  care?  Not  a  bit  of  it.  See 
how  the  Hun  planes  are  trying  to  rise  above  ours? 
Hark!  Do  you  hear  the  machine-guns?  They  are 
beginning  to  pepper  one  another.  Take  these  glasses. 
It's  all  right — I've  got  my  own.  You'll  see  much 
better." 

Already  I  had  a  sense  of  being,  so  to  speak,  in 
the  stalls  at  the  theatre  of  war.  And  now  opera- 
glasses  were  being  pressed  upon  me. 

To  say  that  we  were  lolling  back  at  our  ease  is  to 
put  the  matter  too  mildly.  All  three  of  us  were 
lying  at  full  length  on  our  backs,  the  better  to  view 
the  aerial  encounter  which  was  taking  place  immedi- 
ately above  us. 

"Hullo!"  and  "Did  you  hear  that?"  abruptly 
exclaimed  the  War  Correspondent  and  the  Press 


92  SOULS  IN  KHAKI 

officer;  and  I  turned  my  head  to  find  them  sitting 
up  and  gazing  amazed  at  one  another. 

As  the  guns  kept  going  off,  and  were  making  a 
variety  of  noises,  I  knew  not  what  sound  had  ar- 
rested my  companions'  attention. 

Then  a  sort  of  repressed  shriek  passed  through 
the  air  in  a  rapidly  rising  and  falling  crescendo. 

"Another  one!"  cried  the  War  Correspondent. 

"Yes — and  nearer!"  cried  the  Press  officer. 

They  were  now  on  their  feet 

"What  is  it?"  I  asked,  startled  into  a  sitting  pos- 
ture. 

"Shells!"  exclaimed  the  War  Correspondent. 

"They  are  shelling  the  fosse,"  exclaimed  the  Press 
officer,  who  had  temporarily  turned  his  back  on  the 
enemy  and  was  gazing  across  the  village  from  which 
we  had  recently  emerged.  "One  fell  in  that  field 
over  there,"  he  continued,  "near  those  three  hay- 
stacks." 

Looking  at  the  place  he  indicated,  I  saw  a  column 
of  smcke  arising  from  the  ground. 

The  other  shell,  my  companions  were  agreed,  had 
probably  fallen  in  the  village. 

"We  must  go  down  at  once,"  said  the  Press  offi- 
cer, realising  his  responsibilities. 

Leave  our  superb  point  of  observation !  When 
the  interest  was  becoming  so  keen!  And  just  as 
we  were  about  to  begin  our  lunch ! 

"Yes,"  insisted  the  Press  officer,  on  noting  re- 
luctance, not  to  say  mutiny,  depicted  on  the  face 
of  his  wholly  inexperienced  ward.  For  ordinary 
common  sense  is  apt  to  desert  one  in  a  crisis.  It 
seemed  to  me  unlikely  that  any  one  in  that  great, 


FIRST  TASTE  OF  WARFARE  93 

wide,  distant,  empty  landscape  could  have  seen  such 
minute  specks  as  we  must  be  on  that  dark-coloured 
fosse;  and,  supposing  the  Germans  had  seen  us,  it 
seemed  incredible  that  they  could  succeed  in  hitting 
the  tapering  point  on  which  we  were  perched. 

"Come  at  once,  please.  I  must  insist!"  said  the 
Press  officer,  as  he  led  the  way  down. 

"But  is  this  really  necessary?"  I  asked  the  War 
Correspondent.  "Those  shells  could  hardly  have 
been  meant  for  us." 

"Very  likely  not,"  he  replied  thoughtfully.  "It's 
difficult  to  say.  But  the  Hun  planes  can  easily  have 
signalled  a  battery  to  fire  at  this  fosse.  It  won't 
do  to  stay  here.  You  see,  if  we  draw  fire,  the  shells 
meant  for  us  are  likely  to  explode  among  those 
houses  over  there." 

Beginning  to  understand,  I  seized  the  lunch-basket, 
and  set  out  in  the  wake  of  the  Press  officer. 

"Stoop!"  he  shouted  from  twenty  feet  below. 

"Yes — bend  down,"  said  the  War  Correspondent, 
"otherwise  the  Boches  may  see  you  against  the  sky- 
line." 

It  did  not  seem  dignified,  but  I  did  it;  and  next 
minute  we  all  three  of  us  were  taking  long  strides 
down  the  steep  incline. 

Arriving  on  the  gravelly  expanse  below,  we  paused 
to  regain  out  breath  and  enjoy  the  sensation  of  be- 
ing once  more  in  safety,  when — whizz !  ping!  whizz ! 

Some  invisible  objects  were  smiting  the  ground 
all  round  us. 

"Bullets!"  exclaimed  the  Press  officer. 

Ping!  whizz!  ping! 


94  SOULS  IN  KHAKI 

Something  harmlessly  struck  my  right  shoulder — 
no  doubt  a  tiny  up-flying  fragment  of  gravel. 

"Bullets!"  exclaimed  the  War  Correspondent. 

"Yes,  but  what  bullets?  Where  from?  Who  is 
firing?"  I  asked  in  bewilderment.  For  we  had  been 
careful  to  descend  the  western  slope,  and  the  fosse 
was  now  between  us  and  the  Germans. 

"The  planes,"  replied  the  War  Correspondent. 
"It's  their  machine-guns." 

Of  course.  In  the  excitement  of  finding  ourselves 
a  target  for  shells,  we  had  forgotten  about  the  fight 
occurring  overhead — at  least,  I  had — and  appar- 
ently that  fight  was  now  entering  a  brisk  phase. 

"Quick !"  cried  the  Press  officer.  "There's  a  good 
place  over  there." 

"Yes,"  cried  the  War  Correspondent.  "That'll 
make  good  cover." 

Almost  before  those  words  had  been  spoken,  we 
were  all  careering  across  the  area  of  open  ground. 
But  even  as  I  ran  I  felt  what  a  grievous  mistake 
we  were  making,  and  that  no  situation  could  pos- 
sibly be  more  hazardous  than  the  one  for  which  we 
were  heading.  Nor,  when  all  three  of  us  were  press- 
ing our  backs  against  one  of  the  great  circular  metal 
structures,  could  I  forbear  from  venturing  a  word 
of  criticism. 

"I  suppose  you  know,"  was  my  lugubrious  com- 
ment, "that  we  are  leaning  against  a  gasometer." 
(I  expected  that  any  minute  a  red-hot  bullet  from 
above  would  plunge  into  the  gas  and  explode  it  into 
one  huge  column  of  flame.) 

"What!"  cried  the  startled  War  Correspondent, 


FIRST  TASTE  OF  WARFARE  95 

taking  several  rapid  paces  forward,  "I  thought  they 
were  water  tanks!" 

"So  they  are,"  laughed  the  Press  officer. 

Peering  underneath,  I  did  indeed  see  dripping 
water.  Then  nothing  remained  but  for  me  to  apolo- 
gise. 

By  this  time  the  pugnacious  aeroplanes  had  moved 
out  of  sight,  and,  turning  our  attention  to  the  lunch- 
eon-basket, we  began  an  enjoyable  picnic. 


CHAPTER  VII 

AMID   STRAY  BULLETS 

A  cemetery  by  the  sea — Standing  amid  regiments  of  crosses — Five 
coffins  and  some  singing  birds — Salvationists  and  the  be- 
reaved— Letters  of  passionate  gratitude — Graves  under  fire — 
Smoking  debris  and  stoical  civilians — French  village  or  British 
citadel  ? — The  old  man  and  his  garden — A  demolished  church — 
The  surviving  Calvary — An  astonished  Colonel — The  mor- 
tuary— Tommy's  dinner — A  crimson  stain — Musical  bullets — 
Hiding  from  a  German  airman — Inspecting  a  military  post — 
The  youthful  O.C. — His  damp  dug-outs — Pathetic  fruit  trees — 
A  startling  British  battery — "Playing  at  soldiers":  bright  mem- 
ories— Personal  sensations. 

IN  silvery  sunlight  of  early  morning,  with  a  blue 
strip  of  sea  glowing  beyond  the  city's  grey  smoke, 
I  have  stood  with  Salvationists  in  the  little  cemetery 
up  the  hill.  It  is  the  city  previously  mentioned— 
the  city  that  has  its  principal  buildings  transformed 
into  hospitals  for  British  soldiers. 

Barely  a  day  passes  but  one  or  other  of  those 
hospitals  sends  a  pathetic  burden  up  the  hill — mortal 
token  that  the  spirit  of  still  one  more  brave  fellow 
is  released  to  wider  opportunities. 

We  walked  amid  the  lines  of  wooden  crosses  iden- 
tical in  two  classes:  the  brown  crosses,  which  marked 
the  graves  of  officers;  and  the  more  numerous  smaller 

96 


AMID  STRAY  BULLETS  97 

crosses  painted  white,  which  marked  the  graves  of 
men. 

Each  cross  was  set  in  a  rectangular  oblong  space 
edged  with  dwarf  growing  box;  and  dainty  flowers 
bloomed  in  those  tiny  gardens,  which  occurred  side 
by  side,  and  end  to  end,  in  long  vistas. 

Reaching  the  extremity  of  one  row,  we  found  the 
golden  loam  outthrown  from  an  extensive  excava- 
tion some  ten  feet  wide.  For  in  trenches  our  fallen 
heroes  defended  European  liberty,  and  in  a  trench 
their  broken  bodies  were  buried. 

Five  plain  coffins  lay  in  a  row;  and  without  our- 
selves there  had  been  present  only  a  clergyman,  a 
Presbyterian  minister,  and  the  firing  party  of  Tom- 
mies with  arms  reversed.  Nay,  but  I  must  not  for- 
get the  birds.  Robins  and  a  wren  were  chirping 
softly,  yet  not  in  sadness. 

Those  five  caskets  of  stillness  and  silence — each 
stood  for  us  as  only  an  abstraction :  as  one  of  those 
brave,  unselfish  beings  who,  in  the  hour  of  his  Em- 
pire's need,  heard  a  higher  call  than  the  call  of 
personal  pleasure,  business  advancement,  and  do- 
mestic obligations.  Each  was  only  a  number  and 
a  name,  with  an  indication  of  denominational  clas- 
sification in  that  the  Church  of  England  service  was 
read  over  four,  while  a  Presbyterian  form  of  word- 
ing was  recited  for  the  fifth. 

But  each  had  been  a  familiar,  well-beloved  figure 
in  some  family  circle.  Coffined  there  in  all  likeli- 
hood were  bread-winning  husbands  and  fathers. 
Perhaps  another  was  somebody's  sweetheart  and 
an  only  son.  And  none  but  strangers  and  little 
birds  were  there  to  see  them  buried. 


98  SOULS  IN  KHAKI 

Yet  a  note  of  sadness  is  the  less  justified  because 
an  element  of  comfort  here  calls  for  mention. 

I  have  said  with  what  loving  devotion  the  Salva- 
tionist sisters  attend  the  dying  soldier;  and  after- 
wards they  follow  a  personal  inclination  in  standing 
by  the  open  grave  to  take  a  last  farewell  of  their 
friend.  Yet  even  were  that  act  not  so  prompted, 
it  would  be  performed.  For  the  tidings  that  they 
were  there  proves  balm  to  the  bereaved,  whose  hearts 
may  well  have  been  numbed  by  the  thought  that 
their  dear  one  had  passed  away,  and  been  laid  to 
rest,  in  the  absence  of  all  who  cared  for  him. 

You  cannot  read  with  undimmed  eyes  the  letters 
of  passionate  gratitude  that  flow  in  return  to  the 
Salvation  Army.  With  their  eloquence  unaffected 
by  misspelt  words  and  the  unpunctuated  sentence, 
they  come  to  the  sisters  as  a  wave  of  encouragement, 
sustaining  them  in  patient  and  unceasing  toil  and 
happy  humility. 

"Oh,  thank  you,  thank  you,  dear  friend,  whom 
God  sent  to  comfort  my  boy" — in  such  words  run 
scores  of  these  letters — "and  please  write  again 
to  tell  me  where  he  is  buried,  and  if  there  is  any- 
thing to  mark  his  grave."  So,  after  her  long  day 
in  camp  and  hospital,  the  Salvationist  sister  sits  late 
at  her  desk,  answering  that  and  many  other  letters; 
for  any  one  in  trouble  has  a  right  to  Salvationist 
sympathy  and  assistance. 

It  follows  that  the  appeals  and  commissions  are 
of  great  variety,  ranging  from  inquiries  about  miss- 
ing sons  to  messages  for  dying  husbands. 

And  so  it  came  about  that,  on  departing  for  a  sec- 
ond visit  to  the  firing  line,  I  was  deputed  by  Salva- 


AMID  STRAY  BULLETS  99 

tionist  sisters  to  represent  them  in  visiting,  at  the 
request  of  correspondents,  graves  reported  to  be 
situated  within  the  zone  of  fighting.  Which  fact  as- 
sisted other  conditions  to  make  my  second  experi- 
ence of  actual  warfare  a  more  serious  adventure 
than  its  predecessor. 

From  Bethune  this  time  our  car  proceeded  in  a 
new  direction;  and  soon  we  stopped  at  local  mili- 
tary headquarters,  that  the  Press  officer  might  se- 
cure the  company  of  a  brother  subaltern  acquainted 
with  the  adjoining  section  of  the  British  front. 

As  I  waited  in  the  stationary  car,  the  perspective 
of  housefronts  included,  a  few  hundred  feet  away, 
the  gap  where  an  upper  story  had  been  shattered 
either  by  a  shell  or  a  bomb.  Lime-dust  was  still  de- 
scending from  the  smoking  debris,  showing  how  re- 
cent had  been  the  explosion;  but,  with  only  a  pass- 
ing glance  at  the  wreck,  drivers  of  vehicles  continued 
along  the  road,  and  pedestrians  pursued  their  way 
on  the  opposite  pavement. 

For  to  live  on  the  margin  of  a  war  is  to  acquire 
a  remarkable  degree  of  stoicism — a  truth  destined 
in  a  few  minutes  to  be  confirmed  with  new  force. 

After  being  joined  by  a  dashing  young  Lieutenant 
full  of  smiling  good  spirits,  we  soon  were  drawing 
nearer  to  the  boom  of  cannon  and  the  crackle  of 
rifles,  the  car  picking  its  way  into  an  inhabited  chaos 
of  brick  rubble  and  wrecked  dwellings,  with  here 
and  there  a  group  of  surviving  cottages. 

Poor  little  French  village,  across  whose  narrow 
streets  the  great  world  war  had  ebbed  and  flowed; 
poor  little  French  village  that  had  been  captured 
by  the  Germans  and  recaptured  by  the  British — a 


100  SOULS  IN  KHAKI 

noisy  destiny,  shaped  by  alien  hands,  having  inter- 
rupted its  native  peace. 

Troops  in  khaki,  stealthily  moving  and  skilfully 
posted,  gave  to  the  place  a  predominant  military 
note — two-thirds  British  citadel  to  one-third  French 
village.  It  was  matter  of  amazement  that  the  lat- 
ter element  should  in  any  degree  have  remained.  But 
there  is  something  in  the  French  character — nay, 
there  is  something  in  human  nature — which  prompts 
a  steadfast  clinging,  despite  infinite  discouragement 
and  menace,  to  home  and  the  little  bit  of  family  prop- 
erty. 

I  saw  no  children,  but  men  and  women  still  dwelt 
in  certain  of  the  habitable  cottages — men  and  women 
who  moved  about  quietly  with  grave  looks,  as  be- 
came those  who  held  their  lives  by  a  precarious 
tenure. 

One  old  man  lived  there  in  a  world  of  his  own — 
a  physical  no  less  than  a  moral  world.  Amid  that 
shell-torn  village  he  was  continuing  to  look  after  his 
little  garden,  and  with  consummate  care  and  success. 
Over  his  smooth  stretches  of  loose  brown  earth 
and  his  lines  of  seedling  vegetables,  I  found  him 
bending  vigilant,  rake  in  hand  (for,  with  our  car 
placed  in  sheltered  security,  we  were  now  advanc- 
ing on  foot).  That  grey-haired  and  benign  veteran 
probably  would  not  deem  it  of  much  account  whether 
he  lived  or  died;  but  it  evidently  mattered  much 
that  there  should  be  no  decaying  leaves,  or  surface 
pebbles,  or  upspringing  weeds,  in  his  little  kitchen 
garden  with  its  neat  flower  borders.  If  his  peace  of 
mind  were  ever  disturbed,  or  he  knew  troubled 
dreams  at  night,  the  cause  would  be  related,  I  think, 


AMID  STRAY  BULLETS  101 


less  to  shrapnel,  bullets,1  ancT  bombs,  than  to  late 
frosts  and  the  offending  srvail.  "  - 

Good,  simple  old  man;  I  "Wonder  if  you  still  are 
there  or  whether  you  have  migrated  to  a  larger  para- 
dise. 

A  dozen  or  so  paces  from  that  garden  and  we 
were  at  the  church  —  a  church  still  standing. 

"The  Huns,  you  see,"  explained  our  vivacious 
guide,  "have  spared  this  building.  The  fact  is,  their 
gunners  find  its  steeple  a  useful  landmark.  But 
just  to  show  they  weren't  deterred  by  sentiment,  they 
put  a  shell  the  other  day  through  the  choir."  And 
soon  we  saw  such  huge  apertures  in  wall  and  window 
as  might  have  been  caused  by  some  unruly  giant 
armed  with  a  sledge  hammer. 

The  earth  below  was  plentifully  besprinkled  with 
fragments  of  coloured  glass,  samples  of  which,  at 
the  suggestion  of  our  genial  guide,  I  pocketed  as 
souvenirs. 

That  church  happened  to  be  a  landmark  for  me 
as  well  as  for  the  Germans. 

A  Palmers  Green  lady,  in  a  letter  to  the  Salva- 
tion Army,  had  entreated  them  to  visit  her  son's 
grave,  the  situation  of  which  she  was  able  to  indicate 
only  in  vague,  inexact  terms.  Obviously  the  lad 
had  been  buried  under  fire  where  he  fell,  in  the 
orchard  of  what  was  once  a  farm;  and  surviving 
comrades  had  given  his  mother  the  best  information 
they  could  call  to  mind  —  on  such  and  such  a  road, 
north-west  of  so  and  so,  half  a  mile  from  that  very 
church.  Though  he  shook  his  head  over  these  di- 
rections, my  new  friend  promised  to  help  me  to  try 
and  find  the  grave. 


102  SOULS  IN  KHAKI 

Passing  beyond  that;  sparsely  populated  village, 
we  saw.  no  more  civilians,  each  roadside  building 
that  carne  mto  view  bting  a  picture  of  damage  and 
desolation.  We  walked  towards  the  noise  of  fight- 
ing (shelling  in  the  slurred  base,  with  a  treble  stac- 
cato of  rifle  fire),  and  presently  came  to  what  had 
been  the  church  of  an  adjoining  village.  Having 
no  occasion  for  the  edifice  as  a  topographical  indica- 
tor, the  German  gunners  had  reduced  it  to  a  dense 
jumbled  heap  of  broken  masonry  about  ten  feet 
high;  the  thoroughness  of  the  church's  demolition 
lending  emphasis  to  the  survival  of  its  Calvary, 
which  stood  intact,  over-topping  the  stones  by  some 
six  feet  or  more.  Glancing  around,  one  saw  that 
the  flights  of  explosive  missiles  had  smashed  other 
structures  and  objects  that  had  stood  in  the  locality; 
all  had  succumbed  to  the  withering  bombardment 
save  that  slender  erection  with  its  impaled  figure  of 
beautiful  pathos. 

Since  we  were  only  a  few  hundred  yards  from 
the  Germans,  no  doubt  there  were  many  British 
soldiers  on  that  ground.  Latterly,  however,  we  had 
seen  none  but  an  occasional  Tommy  or  group  of 
Tommies,  and  it  happened  that,  as  we  stood  gazing 
at  the  church  wreckage,  no  fellow-creature  was  any- 
where visible — not,  at  least,  until  a  staff  officer  ab- 
ruptly appeared  from  nowhere  to  demand,  in  a  voice 
of  astonishment,  and  with  a  face  to  correspond,  who 
we  were  and  what  was  our  business. 

Having  glanced  at  our  papers,  however,  he  ac- 
cepted the  position  with  a  shrug  of  the  shoulders, 
merely  pointing  out  that  we  were  under  fire  and  must 
be  careful. 


AMID  STRAY  BULLETS  103 

Then  the  Colonel  (for  such  proved  to  be  his 
rank)  recalled  my  attention  to  the  Calvary,  observ- 
ing that  its  survival  was  most  remarkable,  and  that 
he  had  witnessed  the  identical  phenomenon  at  other 
places  along  the  front.  I  asked  him  if  he  had  ever 
seen  a  fallen  Calvary,  and  he  said  No;  but  we  agreed 
that  such  an  object  would  be  unlikely  to  take  one's 
attention  amid  the  chaos  of  a  shattered  church. 

Continuing  our  advance  towards  the  German  lines, 
we  were  soon  glancing  down  a  country  Lane  at 
some  tiled  barns  of  Neuve  Chapelle.  A  little  far- 
ther on,  our  guide  led  us  in  a  somewhat  dubious 
spirit  into  a  side-road,  where  we  presently  came  upon 
a  company  of  Tommies,  crouching  in  ambush  against 
a  wall,  and  they  directed  us  by  urgent  gesture  to  re- 
turn, which  we  lost  no  time  in  doing. 

A  minute  or  so  later  our  guide's  vigilant  eye  de- 
tected a  solitary  cross  erected  by  the  roadside  on  the 
margin  of  a  garden  or  field.  But  it  proved  not  to 
mark  the  grave  we  sought. 

Thereafter  our  route  lay  along  a  thoroughfare 
shielded  by  an  almost  continuous  line  of  cottages 
and  farm  buildings,  which  were  all  a-zig-zag  with 
the  broken  edges  of  apertures  where  brickwork  and 
roofing  had  been  blown  away.  Hanging  in  front 
of  one  little  dwelling  was  a  board  bearing  the  word 
"Mortuary."  There,  as  elsewhere,  we  saw  a  few 
inconspicuous  khaki  figures. 

Farther  on,  in  the  shelter  of  a  thick  wall,  some 
eight  or  a  dozen  Tommies  were  crouching,  and 
hard  by  was  a  little  oil  stove  burning  beneath  a  steam- 
ing saucepan. 

"Is  it  good?"  I  asked  the  nearest  lad  as,  bend- 


104-  SOULS  IN  KHAKI 

ing  over  the  pot,  I  noted  a  savoury  aroma,  and  saw 
bubbles  of  golden  fat  shining  on  the  boiling  broth. 

"It's  all  right/'  he  replied  with  a  complacent 
smile,  "when  you've  got  plenty  of  bread.  We 
needn't  grumble,  for  two  loaves  have  just  arrived." 

Moving  on,  I  bethought  me  that  we  had  both 
spoken  in  subdued  voices.  With  the  artillery  and 
rifles  making  such  a  noise,  there  could  be  no  sort  of 
military  reason  for  whispering.  But  nearness  to 
the  enemy  prompted  a  muffling  of  sounds.  Some 
instinct  enjoined  quiet. 

We  must  have  been  walking  slowly  as  well  as 
softly,  for  it  was  our  fortune  to  be  overtaken  by  a 
wheeled  ambulance  pushed  by  a  couple  of  Tommies. 

"Are  you  having  many  casualties?"  asked  the 
Lieutenant. 

"A  few,"  replied  one  of  the  Tommies.  "We  are 
going  to  fetch  a  man  who  has  just  been  shot  in  Shep- 
herd's Walk." 

As  the  ambulance  went  by,  I  saw  a  glistening 
wet  patch  of  crimson  on  the  canvas,  at  the  end 
where  a  man's  head  would  lie. 

Some  fifty  yards  farther  on  the  road  ended  at  a 
broader  thoroughfare  running  to  right  and  left. 
Here  a  couple  of  young  officers  stepped  forward  to 
bid  us  stand  in  the  shelter  of  a  near-by  house.  While 
there  we  heard  the  quick,  vibrating,  and  almost  mu- 
sical ring  of  bullets  striking  the  tiles  of  a  building 
across  the  road. 

But  in  the  action  they  took,  those  young  officers 
had  not  been  thinking  of  rifle  fire.  Amid  the  noises 
of  warfare,  I  was  far  from  noting  the  whirr  of  air- 
craft, but  it  appeared  that  a  German  aeroplane  was 


AMID  STRAY  BULLETS  105 

overhead,  and  we  were  likely,  if  seen,  to  attract 
shells. 

The  flying  enemy  having  been  persuaded  by  burst- 
ing shrapnel  to  withdraw,  we  emerged  once  more 
upon  the  highroad.  Then  by  the  courtesy  of  those 
same  young  officers  I  was  privileged  to  inspect  an 
improvised  fort  or  military  post.  It  had  originally 
been  a  small  mansion,  probably  four  stories  high, 
and  certainly  of  recent  construction,  with  a  spacious 
garden  planted  with  fruit  trees.  The  building  was 
now  two  and  a  half  stories  high,  and  but  the  naked 
skeleton  of  its  former  self — floors,  ceilings,  and 
windows  having  been  shot  away,  in  company  with 
about  50  per  cent,  of  the  walls. 

We  were  admitted  through  a  mazy  barricade, 
which,  an  impressive  illustration  of  military  art,  was 
at  once  solid  and  squalid.  Crossing  the  hall  on 
two  planks,  I  entered  a  reception  room  and  the  pres- 
ence of  the  youthful  O.C.,  who,  standing  on  a  heap 
of  brick  rubble,  gave  me  a  gracious  welcome. 

Nor  did  he  lose  any  time  in  conducting  me  to  the 
elaborate  system  of  dug-outs  at  the  back  of  the 
premises.  And  certainly,  when  shells  were  arriving, 
those  dug-outs  would  be  likely  to  prove  acceptable 
asylums.  True,  some  persons  might  object  to  crouch- 
ing or  lying  in  two  feet  or  so  of  water,  but,  as  the 
young  Captain  playfully  remarked,  it  is  not  always 
possible  to  please  everybody. 

I  noticed  that  two  standard  apple  trees  and  one 
standard  plum  had  somehow  survived  the  excava- 
tions, but  they  were  growing  after  a  somewhat  fal- 
tering fashion,  as  though  the  sap  were  bewildered 


106  SOULS  IN  KHAKI 

to  find  soil  touching  the  blossom  and  the  roots  reach- 
ing down  into  empty  air. 

As  we  peered  into  those  dark,  damp  dug-outs,  the 
young  Captain  and  I  grew  confidential. 

"It  seems  only  the  other  day,"  he  remarked,  "that 
I  was  playing  at  soldiers  and  digging  places  like 
these  on  the  seashore.  And  to  think,"  he  smilingly 
added,  "that  we  are  doing  it  in  earnest  here!  That 
is  so  difficult  to  realise,  until" — and  after  a  com- 
pulsory pause  he  added,  "well,  until  something 
like  that  happens!" 

There  had  occurred  a  report  of  such  violence  that 
the  earth  trembled  beneath  us,  and  it  was  as  though 
the  drum  of  my  ear  had  broken.  This  was  the  first 
time  I  had  been  near  a  British  gun  when  it  was  fired. 

At  short  intervals  the  stunning  boom  was  re- 
peated. But  a  smile  never  left  the  face  of  that  sea- 
side boy  who  had  grown  a  few  years  older.  We 
chatted  on. 

I  inferred  that  he  was  only  just  at  the  end  of 
his  school  days  when  war  broke  out.  For  his  mem- 
ory seemed  to  take  him  straight  back  to  sports  as 
though  there  were  no  intervening  period  of  business 
to  be  spanned.  If  blessed  with  a  young  brother,  I 
dare  say  that  O.C.  had  used  bucket  and  spade,  in 
summer  time  by  the  sea,  within  the  previous  five 
years. 

From  that  Past  of  frolic  and  holidays,  what  an 
abrupt  and  amazing  transition  to  the  Present  of 
bloodshed  and  stress !  But  his  clear  eyes  and  round- 
ed cheeks  suggested  a  boy  whose  happiness  had 
rested  on  a  sure  foundation  of  goodness;  and  the 
transition  apparently  did  not  affect  him  with  the 


AMID  STRAY  BULLETS  107 

faintest  suspicion  of  bitterness,  or  gloom,  or  muti- 
nous self-pity. 

As  we  were  taking  our  leave,  I  noticed  the  en- 
circling loop-holed  barricade  which  made  the  posi- 
tion one  to  be  defended  on  all  sides.  Thus,  should 
the  Germans  succeed  in  advancing  a  few  hundred 
yards  in  that  locality,  there  would  be  no  retreat  for 
the  garrison.  I  could  picture  that  seaside  O.C.  con- 
tinuing to  direct  and  encourage  his  men,  a  thought- 
ful smile  never  long  from  his  lips,  until  mortally 
wounded  he  sank  to  the  ground,  and  with  closing 
consciousness  beheld  the  golden  seashore  lapped  by 
little  blue  waves,  sparkling  in  the  splendour  of  a 
glorious  sunrise. 

Continuing  along  the  road,  we  reduced  still  far- 
ther the  distance  between  ourselves  and  the  Ger- 
mans. The  Lieutenant  exercised  a  vigilant  cau- 
tion, and  every  now  and  then  caused  us  to  stoop 
when  passing  a  gap  in  the  screen  of  hedges  and  shat- 
tered walls.  At  one  spot  we  came  upon  a  cluster 
of  silent  Tommies  lying  prone,  rifles  in  hand,  against 
a  small  undulation;  our  guide  seeing  in  the  situa- 
tion an  opportunity  to  point  a  useful  military  moral. 

"If,"  said  he,  "through  carelessness  or  bravado, 
we  let  our  heads  be  seen  above  that  bank,  the  Ger- 
mans would  be  likely  to  put  over  a  few  shells.  That 
might  not  matter  to  us,  as  we  should  probably  have 
walked  away  in  the  meantime,  but  it  would  be  seri- 
ous for  these  men,  who  are  compelled  to  remain 
here." 

Presently,  reaching  the  limit  of  sheltered  ground, 
we  set  about  retracing  our  steps;  the  return  journey 
being  attended  by  only  two  circumstances  that  call 


108  SOULS  IN  KHAKI 

for  mention.  We  examined  several  wayside  crosses 
without  meeting  with  the  name  we  sought;  and  in 
this  instance  (as  in  one  other)  failure  attended  my 
efforts  to  visit  a  grave  on  behalf  of  the  Salvation 
Army. 

As  we  were  passing  the  cottage  labelled  "Mortu- 
ary," it  chanced  that  bullets  rang  out  sharply  on 
striking  the  roof,  and  at  once  the  several  attendant 
lads,  adopting  a  precaution  officially  prescribed, 
stood  rigid  with  their  backs,  palms,  and  heels  pressed 
against  the  building. 

Then  we  returned  past  the  standing  Calvary,  the 
old  man's  immaculate  garden,  and  the  shattered 
church,  to  the  point  where  we  had  to  drop  our  genial 
pilot;  and  a  few  minutes  later  the  car  had  carried 
us  out  of  shell-range  and  into  security  and — dullness ! 

With  nerves  relaxed,  I  found  myself  at  the  end 
of  a  pleasurable  experience. 

In  describing  our  mild  adventures  at  the  fosse, 
I  purposely  refrained  from  a  definite  statement  of 
personal  sensations.  The  fact  is,  I  found  the  occa- 
sion more  exhilarating  and  congenial  than  I  remem- 
bered ever  before  to  have  found  a  picnic.  Indeed, 
the  state  of  my  feelings  seemed  little  short  of  scan- 
dalous, having  regard  to  the  interests  I  represented 
and  the  wholesale  tragedy  at  which  we  were  peer- 
ing; and  at  one  point  I  drew  the  War  Correspondent 
aside,  to  apologise  for  enjoying  myself,  and  to  ex- 
press a  hope  that  he  would  not  attribute  to  callous- 
ness what  was,  apparently,  merely  the  effect  of  nov- 
elty. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  I  found  myself  on  that  occa- 
sion in  some  uncertainty  as  to  the  correct  interpreta- 


AMID  STRAY  BULLETS  109 

tion  to  be  placed  on  my  state  of  mind.  I  certainly 
had  had  no  experience  of  "feeling  afraid,"  but  this 
might  be  due  to  one  or  both  of  two  causes :  ( i )  the 
trivial  and  transitory  element  of  danger  that  at- 
tended our  adventure;  (2)  the  fact  that  the  danger 
took  me  so  completely  by  surprise. 

But  in  the  second  experience  those  elements  of 
uncertainty  were  not  repeated,  and,  so  far  from 
feeling  any  unpleasant  timidity,  I  had  the  happiness 
to  be  exhilarated.  I  could  definitely  trace  a  sus- 
tained thrill  to  a  realisation  of  the  risk  we  were 
running.  The  ping-ping  of  the  bullets  lent  a  new 
spice  to  existence. 

Clearly  the  man  who  puts  himself  in  the  witness- 
box — who  runs  a 'tape-measure,  so  to  speak,  over 
his  moral  consciousness — is  liable  to  gather  unex- 
pected, and  perhaps  not  very  dignified,  evidence. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

JIMMY'S  OPPORTUNITY 

A  costermonger  and  his  comrades — "A  button  short" — Effect  of  a 
first  shell — In  bombarded  trenches — An  impromptu  religious 
service — "God  bless  you,  Jimmy!" — Prayer  and  its  fruits — 
"Mumming"  a  hymn — Men  hungry,  but  not  for  meat — Resumed 
devotions — "Like  being  in  Heaven" — The  absentee — An  unoffi- 
cial chaplain — In  the  rest  camp— A  revival  of  bad  language — 
Jimmy's  venture — A  remarkable  gathering — Thirty  converts — 
Nightly  meetings  of  growing  influence — An  officer's  testimony — 
Jimmy  injured  by  liquid  fire — His  new  appointment — Fish  and 
chips. 

THE  Ypres  salient  provided  me  with  remarkable 
evidence  of  war's  effect  on  the  human  soul;  this 
evidence  being  of  two  kinds:  that  which  came  un- 
der my  own  observation,  and  that  which  I  derived 
from  the  experience  of  an  Oxford  costermonger 
named  j  ames  J.  Dingle. 

Before  being  invalided  into  a  sedentary  occupa- 
tion, Private  Jimmy  saw  active  service  at  the  Front ; 
and  he  gave  me  full  details. 

It  seems  that  he  and  his  comrades  (Oxford  and 
Bucks  Light  Infantry),  with  little  previous  experi- 
ence of  bullets  and  shelling,  went  straight  into 
trenches  that  were  being  somewhat  briskly  bom- 
barded. Up  to  which  time  the  general  attitude  to- 
wards Jimmy  was  (outwardly,  at  any  rate)  one  of 

1 10 


JIMMY'S  OPPORTUNITY  111 

good-humoured  toleration — an  attitude  dating  from 
the  time  when  some  forty  of  them  first  met  as  joint 
occupants  of  a  hut. 

He  told  me  about  that  evening. 
'  Tm  going  to  pray,'  I  says.  'Do  you  mind?* 
I  says.  Tm  going  to  pray  for  the  lot,'  I  says. 
They  just  laughed  and  jeered  a  bit,  but  they  kept 
quiet.  When  I  got  up  from  my  knees,  one  says, 
'He's  got  a  button  short,  pore  feller';  and  another 
says,  'All  the  Salvationists  are  balmy.'  I  says,  'Yes, 
men,  I  began  it  eight  years  ago,  and  I  wish  I'd  been 
balmy  long  before  that.'  ' 

To  be  strictly  accurate,  the  general  attitude  to- 
wards Jimmy  began  to  change  when  they  were  a 
mile  and  a  half  from  the  trenches.  Then  it  was  they 
saw  their  first  shell  explode,  and  some  one  said, 
"Pass  the  word  down  to  Jimmy  to  start  up  his  old 
favourite,  'When  the  Roll  is  called  up  yonder.' ' 
He  sang  three  verses,  and  the  men  joined  in  the 
chorus.  Then  they  were  called  to  attention,  and 
ordered  to  keep  silent  for  the  rest  of  the  journey. 

Morning  had  hardly  broken  when  they  got  into 
trenches  near  Ypres  and  lined  up  against  the  para- 
pet. 

"The  shells,"  said  Jimmy,  "were  coming  over 
dreadful.  A  man  by  the  name  of  Sam  said,  'Wot 
does  Jimmy  think  of  it?'  I  said,  'I  think  our  time 
is  come.  We'd  better  pray.'  And  we  did.  I  start- 
ed. 'O  Lord,'  I  says,  'we  feel  that  our  time  is 
come.  Prepare  each  one  of  us  for  what  Thou  see  fit 
to  call  us  to.  Bless  and  strengthen  every  man  in 
these  'ere  trenches.  If  our  time  is  come,  may  we 
all  feel  and  believe  that  it  is  well  with  our  souls.'  I 


SOULS  IN  KHAKI 

says :  Tm  praying  for  you  all.  Pray  for  yourselves !' 
The  tears  were  running  down  their  cheeks.  They 
said,  'God  bless  you,  Jimmy!'  I  says:  'And  God 
bless  you,  my  friends!'  Then  I  says,  'O  Lord,  help 
us.  Make  us  die  easy  if  our  time  is  come.7  That  did 
me  good.  I  'ad  felt  a  bit  shaky,  but  after  that  I  didn't 
mind  if  my  time  was  come.  I  could  see  God  was 
working  through  them.  They  said,  'Jimmy,  you 
mean  business;  we  can  see  what  it  stands  for  to  be  a 
Christian.  It  makes  us  not  afraid  of  death/  ' 

He  gave  other  details  of  that  critical  first  spell 
under  fire.  It  seems  that  Sam  was  on  his  right — 
Sam,  whose  bad  language  had  been  conspicuous  in 
a  crowd  where  blasphemy  was  the  rule.  A  man 
named  Ted  was  on  his  left.  At  first  Jimmy  spoke 
merely  to  his  immediate  neighbours,  but  soon  he 
communicated  with  the  general  body  of  men  by  the 
means  they  had  adopted  in  communicating  with  him. 
Before  praying  the  second  time,  he  said,  "Pass  the 
word  down  that  we  are  going  to  pray" ;  and  on  both 
sides  of  him  the  word  was  passed  down,  until  the 
whole  line  were  on  their  knees.  The  trench  being 
dry,  and  it  being  easy  to  rest  one's  rifle  against  the 
parapet,  there  was  no  difficulty  about  kneeling. 

"We  prayed,"  said  Jimmy,  "for  about  a  quarter 
of  an  hour." 

"Rather  a  long  time,"  I  pointed  out. 

"Yes,"  said  Jimmy,  "but  the  shells  were  still  com- 
ing over  cruel." 

After  they  rose  from  their  knees,  Sam  said,  "Good 
old  Jimmy,  that's  done  me  a  lot  of  good.  I  never 
prayed  before,  but  I've  prayed  now." 

"As  for  me,"  Jimmy  testified,  "I  found  myself 


JIMMY'S  OPPORTUNITY  113 

coming  a  lot  more  cheerful.  After  we  had  prayed, 
I  was  filled  with  joy,  and  was  more  stronger  to 
stand  the  dangers — more  myself.  I  started  to  sing 
'Abide  with  Me,'  and  I  heard  one  or  two  at  it  on 
both  sides  of  me.  They  didn't  know  the  words,  but 
they  just  mummed  it.  After  that  we  had  other 
hymns  the  same  way,  until  seven  o'clock  came,  when 
we  got  the  order  to  stand  down  and  sit  about  the 
trench  cooking  our  food." 

Nobody,  however,  wanted  any  food.  Jimmy  and 
his  friends  merely  wanted  something  with  which  to 
moisten  their  parched  throats.  Most  of  the  men 
had  already  used  up  the  pint  of  water  with  which 
they  started  from  camp.  But  bodily  needs  occupied 
a  subordinate  place  in  their  minds.  They  crowded 
round  the  Oxford  costermonger,  and  encouraged 
him  to  dilate  on  his  favourite  theme. 

"Then  I  felt,"  said  Jimmy,  "that  I  needed  God's 
guidance  more  than  ever.  They  liked  to  hear  me 
tell  'em  about  Jesus,  and  they  said  they  could  see 
there  must  be  something  in  religion  after  all.  I  says 
to  myself,  'Jimmy,'  I  says,  'this  is  your  golden  op- 
portunity.' What  if  I  'adn't  been  converted? 
What  would  'ave  become  of  me — and  them  ?  ' What 
a  blessing,'  I  says  to  myself,  Tm  a  Salvationist  and 
got  a  clean  'eart.'  And  every  time  I  said  anything, 
they  said,  'Go  on,  Jimmy — God  bless  you!'  There 
was  no  more  swearing.  The  men  were  very  quiet; 
they  seemed  different  altogether.  I  started  once 
more  to  sing  'Abide  with  me,'  and  two  or  three 
men  said  they  wanted  to  live  good." 

During  the  day  a  water  supply  was  found,  and 
the  men  went  thither  to  replenish  their  supplies. 


114  SOULS  IN  KHAKI 

Jimmy  is  sure  that  no  man  slept  or  did  any  cooking. 
The  shrapnel  was  still  bursting,  and  occasionally 
a  wounded  man  was  borne  along  the  trench.  Jimmy 
was  always  the  centre  of  a  cluster  of  men  listening 
gratefully  to  what  he  had  to  say. 

After  dark  they  once  more  stood  along  the  trench, 
each  man  under  orders  periodically  to  stand  erect, 
aim,  fire,  and  then  duck  down  again.  But  the  edge 
of  that  new  peril  was  blunted  through  a  happy  in- 
spiration that  came  to  Jimmy.  Following  his  ex- 
ample, and  at  his  suggestion,  they  began  their  spell 
of  fighting  with  a  few  minutes  of  kneeling  at  prayer; 
as  was  destined  to  become  their  regular  custom  when 
going  on  duty. 

And  after  those  two  hours  "on,"  they  again  had 
five  hours  "off";  which  continued  to  be  their  pro- 
gramme while  in  the  trenches.  I  asked  Jimmy  if 
by  the  second  day  he  had  found  his  appetite  or 
wanted  a  nap. 

"Oh,  no,"  he  explained,  "the  shells  were  still  com- 
ing over  something  awful.  But  you  wouldn't  be- 
lieve how  different  the  men  were.  You  should  have 
seen  the  smiles  on  their  faces — nothing  but  smiling 
and  smiling.  It  was  just  like  being  in  Heaven. 
The  devil  was  missing  that  time.  I  felt  he  had  left 
us  altogether." 

I  asked  Jimmy,  who  has  a  fine  memory,  to  repeat 
some  of  the  things  he  said  to  his  comrades  during 
those  first  days  under  fire. 

"I  told  'em,"  replied  Jimmy,  "what  Christ  had 
done  for  me,  and  I  said  He'd  do  the  same  for  them. 
We  haven't  got  to  go  to  church  to  get  Christ,"  I 
says;  "we  can  have  Him  here.  God  is  waiting  with 


JIMMY'S  OPPORTUNITY  115 

outstretched  arms,"  I  says,  "to  receive  each  one  of 
us.  I  really  felt  God  had  made  me  the  chaplain." 

So  it  went  on  for  five  days. 

"And  just  fancy,"  said  Jimmy  with  shining  eyes, 
"no  sign  of  the  devil  for  five  days!" 

Then  Jimmy  and  his  friends,  being  relieved  by 
other  troops,  retired  to  spend  seven  days  in  a  rest 
camp  behind  the  lines. 

On  the  march,  the  unofficial  chaplain  received  a 
shock.  He  heard  some  swearing.  The  devil  had 
come  back. 

When  evening  arrived,  Jimmy  and  his  friends 
felt  much  refreshed  physically  by  the  food  and  sleep 
they  had  enjoyed  during  the  afternoon.  But  Jimmy 
had  heard  more  swearing,  and  his  heart  was  heavy. 
A  few  short  hours  before,  and  there  had  seemed  no 
limit  to  the  glorious  results  vouchsafed  to  his  ef- 
forts. Now  those  results  seemed  to  fade,  and  he 
was  left  with  a  mocking  sense  of  failure. 

And  here  we  may  note  that  his  Salvationist  activi- 
ties in  Oxford,  his  native  city,  had  been  limited.  In 
frequent  request  were  his  services  as  a  vocalist,  but, 
beyond  being  occasionally  called  upon  for  a  personal 
testimony,  he  was  not  asked  to  speak.  Since  join- 
ing the  British  Army,  he  had,  it  is  true,  been  con- 
stantly pleading  with  his  comrades,  though  largely 
in  an  informal  and  conversational  way. 

During  that  first  evening  in  the  rest  camp,  he  met 
a  Corporal  who,  as  an  earnest  member  of  the  Church 
of  England,  had  on  previous  occasions  proved  a  sym- 
pathetic companion.  "Do  you  think,"  asked  down- 
hearted Jimmy,  "if  I  was  to  start  a  meeting,  I'd  get 
any  round  me?"  The  Corporal  was  afraid  not. 


116  SOULS  IN  KHAKI 

'Well,  I'll  think  I'll  chance  it,"  said  Jimmy;  and, 
taking  off  his  khaki  tunic,  he  stood  conspicuous  in 
his  Salvation  jersey. 

"Hello!  There's  Jimmy  at  it  again,"  cried  out 
a  laughing  lad  as  he  walked  by.  It  was  not  very 
encouraging,  but  Jimmy  held  to  his  purpose. 

"I  started  off,"  he  told  me,  "with 

"'Hark!  the  Gospel  news  is  sounding, 

Christ  has  suffered  on  the  tree; 
Streams  of  mercy  are  abounding, 
Grace  for  all  is  rich  and  free.' 

"  'And  all/  I  says,  'means  all  of  you.'  Well, 
after  a  bit,  one  or  two  came  round.  But  I  went  on 
talking  with  my  head  down,  and  when  I  come  to 
look  up,  what  do  you  think?  Why,  there  I  was  in 
the  middle  of  a  great  big  ring,  with  five  or  six  hun- 
dred crowding  round!  It  give  me  such  a  happy 
feeling — my  golden  opportunity  come  true  again. 
I  set  'em  singing,  and  they  sang  wonderful  hearty! 
Then  I  thought  how  nice  for  them  to  hear  some- 
thing out  of  the  Bible,  so  I  took  mine  out  and  opened 
it.  But  I'm  a  very  bad  scholar,  so  I  said  to  the 
Church  of  England  Corporal,  who  was  standing 
near,  'Brother,'  I  says,  'will  you  help  me  by  reading 
the  Word  of  God?'  He  said,  Til  be  only  too 
pleased,'  and  he  read  out  of  Matthew.  Then,  after 
another  hymn,  I  said,  'Look  here,  we're  out  at 
the  war,  and  we  don't  know  when  we  are  going  back, 
so  let  us  make  the  best  of  it.  *  I'm  here,'  I  says,  'to 
try  and  cheer  you  by  God's  help.  -  Now  I  want  you 
to  sing  as  hearty  as  you  can.'  You  just  ought  to  have 
heard  'em!"  exclaimed  the  enthusiastic  costermonger. 


JIMMY'S  OPPORTUNITY  117 

"A  Sergeant  stepped  into  the  ring,"  he  continued, 
"and  said,  'Will  you  have  mother's  favourite  hymn, 
"Lead,  kindly  light"?'  Oh,  if  you  could  only  have 
heard  them  singing  it!  After  that,  I  give  my  testi- 
mony. I  told  'em  that  first  of  all  I'd  got  God  to 
thank;  but  the  Salvation  Army  came  next.  It  was  a 
wonderful  meeting,  and  it  kept  on  getting  more  won- 
derful. For  after  a  bit  there  was  a  lot  of  them 
kneeling  on  the  ground ;  but  only  thirty  really  decided 
and  got  properly  converted." 

"Only  thirty!"  I  interjected. 

"Ah,  but  wait,"  replied  Jimmy,  his  face  radiant 
and  his  eyes  brimming  over,  "that  was  only  the  be- 
ginning. We  had  more  wonderful  times  still  during 
the  next  seven  days.  At  every  meeting  there  was 
a  bigger  lot  converted,  and,  in  all,  hundreds  got  the 
blessing." 

But  I  wanted  more  details. 

"Those  first  thirty?"  echoed  Jimmy.  "Well, 
them  and  me  had  a  nice  long  talk  after  the  meeting 
was  over.  I  believe  they  was  all  of  'em  backsliders, 
or  pretty  near  all  of  'em,  and  some  had  been  Salva- 
tionists— one  from  Regent  Hall,  one  from  Canada, 
and  I  forget  where  the  others  come  from.  I  told 
'em  I'd  pray  for  them,  'but,'  I  says,  'you  must  pray 
for  yourselves.'  And  I  told  'em  that  if  they  wanted 
to  please  their  mother  or  father  or  wife  they'd  bet- 
ter write  home  and  say  they'd  been  to  the  Saviour, 
and  intended  to  trust  Him  in  this  time  of  trouble. 
'And  if  you  do  trust  Him,'  I  said,  'He'll  not  only 
bless  you,  but  keep  your  wife  and  all  your  other 
dear  ones.  Write  and  say,  "I've  come  back  to  the 
Lord."  '  And  later  in  the  evening  one  told  me  he'd 


118  SOULS  IN  KHAKI 

written  home  and  he'd  got  those  words  in  the  letter. 
I  said,  Tray  Bong!'" 

"And  when  did  you  have  your  second  meeting?" 

"Next  night,"  replied  Jimmy;  "and  I  got  a  lot 
of  help  from  the  converts  that  came  forward  at  the 
first  meeting,  specially  the  backsliders  from  the 
Army.  They  went  among  the  men  fishing  for  souls, 
and  we  had  over  seventy  come  forward  at  that 
meeting.  And  so  it  went  on  growing  every  day — 
more  helpers  and  more  converts.  You  can't  have 
no  idea  what  wonderful  meetings  they  were." 

But  from  independent  quarters  I  had  heard  about 
the  boundless  enthusiasm,  and  far-reaching  spiritual 
power,  manifested  at  those  gatherings. 

Indeed,  of  the  numerous  eminent  divines  whom 
Oxford  has  given  to  the  world,  how  many,  I  wonder, 
have  influenced  more  conversions  in  a  fortnight  than 
were  influenced  by  one  who,  trundling  a  wheelbar- 
row, goes  through  the  streets  of  Oxford  selling  ba- 
nanas at  two  a  penny  and  fine  ripe  strawberries. 

"At  one  meeting,"  continued  Jimmy,  "an  officer 
of  our  A  company  gave  a  wonderful  testimony.  He 
said  he  had  tried  both  plans,  and  the  only  way  to 
get  peace  and  happiness  was  by  serving  God.  At 
another  meeting  I  saw  our  dear  friend  the  chap- 
lain in  the  crowd,  and  I  asked  him  to  come  in  the 
ring  and  give  us  a  word.  He  said  they  ought  to  be 
proud  of  a  man  like  me,  and  he  turned  round  to 
me  and  he  said,  'God  bless  you,  and  God  bless  the 
Salvation  Army!'  Afterwards  he  said  to  me,  'We 
as  church  people  haven't  come  up  to  the  standard 
we  ought  to  have  done.'  He  said,  'I  couldn't  have 
struck  out  like  you  have  done.  I  wish  I  could  get 


JIMMY'S  OPPORTUNITY  119 

the  same  spirit.'  He  was  the  Rev.  Mr.  Jones,  Con- 
gregationalist,  and  he  gave  me  a  nice  Bible." 

On  returning  to  the  trenches,  Jimmy  saw  coloured 
flames  advancing  towards  him,  and  his  next  experi- 
ence was  to  wake  up  in  a  hospital. 

It  was  a  disappointment  to  be  pronounced  medi- 
cally unfit  for  further  service  in  the  firing  line;  but 
Jimmy  recovered  his  musical  tendencies  on  learning 
of  the  sphere  to  which  the  authorities  proposed  to 
appoint  him. 

At  various  parts  of  the  war  zone  in  France,  the 
Salvation  Army  had,  as  the  reader  is  aware,  erected 
huge  huts  in  which  Tommy  took  meals,  wrote  let- 
ters, listened  to  music,  and  found  friends  anxious 

to  help  him  in  all  possible  ways.  At  E ,  one 

of  the  British  bases,  a  hut  of  this  character  had 
been  so  greatly  appreciated  that  the  local  military 
command,  noting  that  the  small  staff  of  Salvationists 
were  condemned  by  their  success  to  unceasing  la- 
bours, decided,  as  some  recognition  of  the  valuable 
service  they  were  rendering  the  British  Army,  to 
allot  them  an  orderly  from  its  ranks.  And  it  is 
certainly  an  eloquent  testimony  to  official  care  in 
making  appointments  that  Private  James  J.  Dingle 
was  appointed  to  the  post. 

So  it  came  about  that,  at  the  time  of  my  meeting 
with  Jimmy,  he  was  daily  putting  in  eighteen  hours 
of  joyful  service  in  the  hut,  where  he  had  won  an 
incidental  reputation  for  the  excellence  of  the  fish 
and  chips  he  supplied  to  an  unending  stream  of 
customers  in  khaki. 


CHAPTER  IX 

HOLINESS  AND   HEROISM 

Attached  to  a  battalion — The  considerate  Adjutant — My  servant — 
Taking  meals  with  the  subalterns — A  mess  joke — Story  of  an 
irate  Major — Joseph's  testimony — A  Ramsgate  Salvationist — 
My  tent — Reading  in  bed — The  salient  at  night — Memories  of 
Tiberias — My  unsuccessful  petition — Transferred  to  another 
regiment — A  friendly  Quartermaster — Listening  to  the  pipes — 
The  Gay  Gordons  and  their  dead — Buttered  toast  from  the 
Quartermaster-sergeant — The  spiritual  experiences  of  Sergeant 
Withers — Living  by  faith  under  fire — Obstructed  moonlight; 
an  answer  to  prayer — The  faithful  Sergeant's  splendid 
bravery. 

So  far  my  visits  to  the  Front  had  been  in  the  nature 
of  day  excursions,  and  I  had  returned  to  sleeping 
quarters  beyond  the  range  of  German  artillery. 

But  the  time  came,  when,  on  taking  leave  of  the 
Press  officer  one  afternoon,  I  found  myself  attached 
to  a  battalion  in  a  camp  behind  the  Ypres  salient. 
This  proved  an  instructive  experience. 

The  Adjutant — a  young  Scotsman  whose  many 
responsibilities  failed  to  cloud  his  sunny  disposition 
— allotted  a  tent  for  my  exclusive  use,  appointed 
a  lad  from  the  ranks  to  serve  me  as  orderly  or  ser- 
vant, and  laid  him  under  imperative  obligations 
(which  my  intervention  was  powerless  to  modify) 
in  the  matter  of  providing  me  with  a  camp  bed,  three 
warm  blankets,  an  oil-heating  stove,  a  pail  of  water 


1 20 


HOLINESS  AND  HEROISM 

to  wash  in,  and  such  other  civilised  amenities  as 
might  be  within  the  reach  of  an  army  in  the  field. 

I  took  my  meals  with  the  subalterns — lion-hearted 
lads  overflowing  with  chaff  and  innocent  humour: 
three  of  whom,  when  war  broke  out,  were  at  the 
University,  one  being  in  training  for  a  missionary 
career  in  China;  while  the  president  of  the  mess,  a 
comparatively  grave  senior,  aged  twenty-two,  had 
enjoyed  a  little  business  experience  with  a  famous 
Canadian  firm. 

Several  times  in  my  presence  orders  arrived  for 
one  or  other  to  go  in  command  of  a  party  of  military 
navvies,  and  fill  shell-holes  on  roads  within  the 
salient;  it  being  revealed  as  the  stock  mess  joke  on 
such  occasions  that  the  chosen  comrade  should  be 
asked,  in  a  tone  of  mock  solicitude,  what  flowers  he 
would  wish  at  his  burial.  It  was  not  a  very  nice 
joke,  it  was  not  even  a  funny  joke,  but  it  will  serve 
to  illustrate  the  mood  in  which  those  youngsters  con- 
fronted peril. 

Perhaps  I  may  be  permitted  to  give  the  reader 
another  taste  of  the  happy  spirits  prevailing  in 
that  little  wooden  hut,  where  a  sufficiency  of  simple, 
well-cooked  food  was  served  in  enamelled  ware  on 
oil  baize. 

"I  say  L ,"  exclaimed  one  of  our  number  just 

returned  from  a  nocturnal  excursion  of  the  kind 

mentioned,  "were  you  down  at  Gate  last 

Wednesday  night?" 

"Yes,"  replied  the  divinity  student,  who  happened 
at  the  moment  to  be  showing  me  his  boxful  of  vari- 
ous detonators,  which  he  obviously  collected  with  a 
fervour  usually  associated  with  philately. 


SOULS  IN  KHAKI 

"And  did  you  fill  up  a  hole  near  Mokey's  Bower?" 

"Let  me  see,"  ruminated  L .  "Yes — a  whop- 
per. Why?" 

"Fill  it  in  nicely,  did  you?"  continued  the  in- 
quirer, struggling  with  pent-up  emotion. 

"Rather!  At  first  I  thought  we  were  in  for  an 
all-night  sitting.  Usually  the  stuff  takes  a  lot  of 
looking  for  round  about  there.  But  I  had  the  luck 
to  find  a  ripping  heap  not  twenty  yards  from  the 
hole — there  must  have  been  five  tons  of  it.  We  had 
to  use  the  lot,  but  I  was  proud  of  the  job  when  it 
was  finished." 

"Well,  a  gunnery  Major  there  is  very  anxious  to 
meet  you,"  exclaimed  the  other,  unable  any  longer 
to  repress  his  mirth.  "Talk  about  hot  air — I  was 
glad  to  escape  with  a  whole  skin.  He  wants  to  know 
the  name  of  the  jackass  who  carted  away  the  screen 
of  his  battery.  It  seems  they  were  the  best  part 
of  a  week  collecting  that  stuff.  He  says  it  was  a 
vital  part  of  the  mask  for  his  guns,  and  he  was  evi- 
dently awfully  proud  of  it — had  carefully  built  it 
up  to  look  like  an  ordinary  wayside  heap  of  build- 
ing material." 

"Yes,  but,"  protested  L ,  "that  is  just  what  I 

thought  it  was!  He  shouldn't  be  so  jolly  realistic." 

However,  little  beyond  a  superficial  friendship  is 
possible  with  men  met  only  in  a  group  at  meals; 
and  it  happened  that  those  bright  young  officers 
yielded  me  less  instruction  and  inspiration  than  did 
Joseph  Turner,  the  lad  who  acted  as  my  orderly. 

Knowing  him  to  have  been  chosen  at  random  to 
serve  me,  I  looked  forward  with  special  interest 
to  the  confidential  talk  our  relations  would  enable 


HOLINESS  AND  HEROISM  123 

me  to  have  with  him.  And  certainly  if  he  could  be 
accepted  as  a  typical  Tommy,  the  spiritual  state  of 
the  British  Army  was  something  to  rejoice  over. 
For  at  a  first  word  about  vital  matters,  his  eyes 
brightened,  his  tongue  was  loosened,  and  he  told 
me  that,  when  under  fire,  he  always  put  himself  in 
God's  keeping  and  awaited  the  issue  without  fear. 

Not  that  Joseph's  interests  were  limited  to  the 
material  world  in  years  preceding  the  war.  He  had 
been  a  punctual  attendant  at  a  Bible-class  in  his  na- 
tive town  of  Newark,  where  he  was  also  an  occa- 
sional visitor  to  the  Salvation  Army  corps. 

And  to  Joseph  I  owed  the  pleasure  of  meeting 
some  Salvationist  comrades  of  his,  including  a  Rams- 
gate  furniture-dealer,  who  mentioned  that  he  had 
learnt  to  live  by  faith  at  home  (notably  when  rais- 
ing money  for  his  corps) ,  and  that  during  heavy 
fighting  at  Loos  and  elsewhere  he  had  remained 
placid  and  cool,  always  with  the  words  running  in 
his  mind, 

"So  long  Thy  power  hath  blest  me,  sure  it  still 
Will  lead  me  on." 

"If  I  hadn't  been  a  Salvationist,"  he  said,  "you 
wouldn't  have  seen  me  in  the  British  Army.  In 
the  old  days  I  hadn't  enough  sense  of  duty,  for  one 
thing,  or  the  grace  to  make  the  sacrifice,  for  an- 
other." 

These  conversations  happened  on  my  first  night 
under  canvas — an  occasion  of  pleasant  and  impres- 
sive sensations. 

After  camp  fires  and  sounds  had  one  by  one  died 


SOULS  IN  KHAKI 

down,  I  lay  for  an  hour  or  so  luxuriously  reading 
in  bed.  For,  at  the  Front,  it  seemed,  there  were 
no  onerous  lighting  regulations,  with  stern  special 
constables  to  see  to  their  enforcement.  Thus,  with 
official  permission,  I  had  two  candles  by  my  bed- 
side, while  the  flap  of  the  tent  hung  open  in  the 
interests  of  ventilation. 

Nor,  having  laid  aside  my  book  shortly  after  mid- 
night, could  I  forbear  from  emerging  through  that 
flap  to  take  stock  of  my  surroundings. 

In  the  encircling  stillness  only  near  tents  were 
visible,  and  that  dimly.  But  it  was  the  northern 
horizon  that  claimed  attention,  and  this  by  reason 
of  the  shimmering  lights  that  appeared  and  faded 
here  and  there,  and  of  the  occasional  rise  and  fall 
of  brilliant  stars.  One  gazed  from  right  and  left 
round  a  semicircle  of  illumination,  which  pulsated 
in  unison  with  the  rumble  and  boom  of  firing.  But 
what  most  impressed  the  imagination  was  a  fact 
not  seen  or  heard. 

We  were  behind  the  Ypres  salient — that  crucial 
spot  in  Europe  where  the  British  Empire  had  been 
so  vigorously  menaced  and  so  valiantly  safeguarded; 
that  little  bit  of  Belgian  geography  where  a  lot  of 
English  history  was  occurring.  But  the  process  was 
taking  place,  at  any  rate  within  the  range  of  my  con- 
sciousness, under  most  soothing  and  restful  condi- 
tions. 

Not  since  sojourning  on  the  pebble  shore  of  Gali- 
lee, when  the  smell  of  quiet  waters  was  borne  on 
the  night  air  into  my  tent,  had  it  been  my  lot  to  sleep 
under  canvas.  Thus  memory  enriched  with  tran- 
quilising  sensations  a  physical  experience  in  itself 


HOLINESS  AND  HEROISM 

acceptable  and  pleasant;  and  I  floated  into  dream- 
land with  Tiberias  of  golden  memories  linked  with 
modern  Ypres  in  one  thought — a  thought  still  per- 
meating my  being  when  morning  brought  smiling 
Joseph  to  announce  that  my  shaving  water  was  in 
the  milk  tin,  and  that  a  Taube  was  flying  overhead, 
and  that  breakfast  would  be  ready  in  twenty  min- 
utes. 

To  be  living  thus  under  picturesque  conditions, 
and  amid  strong  human  interests,  would,  one  might 
think,  have  satisfied  anybody;  but  soon  I  was  ask- 
ing permission  (of  both  the  subalterns  and  their 
superiors)  to  go  and  have  a  peep  at  Ypres.  For 
to  be  so  near  that  famous  place  without  visiting  it 
proved  very  tantalising. 

My  appeals  were  in  vain,  but  they  elicited  the 
curious  fact  that  those  officers  had  not  themselves, 
for  the  most  part,  been  inside  the  city,  which  they 
said  was  under  continuous  shell  fire — a  fact  render- 
ing it  impossible,  in  their  judgment,  for  a  civilian  to 
go  there.  They  also  said  I  might  as  well  ask  them 
to  take  me  into  the  trenches — a  remark  that  served 
to  cloud  my  hopes.  But  only  temporarily.  For 
on  the  following  afternoon  word  arrived  that  I  was 
to  report  myself  to  the  Colonel  of  another  battalion, 
who  would  arrange,  it  was  stated,  for  me  to  visit 
the  trenches.  Whereupon,  taking  leave  of  Joseph 
and  my  other  friends,  I  set  off,  under  a  suitable  es- 
cort, to  perform  the  journey  rendered  necessary  by 
this  intimation. 

And  soon  my  new  O.C.,  with  raised  eyebrows, 
was  expressing  himself  doubtful  if  I  should  have  a 
very  rosy  time  in  the  trenches.  It  seemed  they  had 


126  SOULS  IN  KHAKI 

not  yet  been  properly  restored  after  seven  and  a  half 
recent  hours  of  shell  fire. 

However,  my  papers  were  explicit,  and  so  he 
handed  me  over  to  the  hospitable  resources  of  the 
Quartermaster — a  fine  figure  of  a  man,  gracious  and 
soldierly,  with  whom  I  was  soon  traversing  duck 
boards.  Yet  suddenly,  by  common  consent,  we  stood 
stock  still — listening. 

Near  by,  where  little  white  tents  twinkled  among 
the  trees,  the  pipes  had  struck  up.  It  was  masterly 
playing,  full  of  sadness,  rhythm,  and  determination. 

Presently  the  rigid  Quartermaster  was  murmuring 
explanations : 

"The  Gay  Gordons,  you  know.  They  were  with 
us  last  week.  Another  search  party  is  going  out 
to-night.  So  there'll  be  more  funerals  in  the  morn- 
ing. The  pipes  are  getting  ready — playing  the  la- 
ment, don't  they  call  it?  You  like  the  pipes?" 

But  who  could  fail  to  like  them  under  such  con- 
ditions? 

Daylight  had  already  waned  sufficiently  to  lend 
emphasis  to  the  few  camp  fires — braziers  tempo- 
rarily blazing.  A  splutter  of  laughter  and  splashing 
arose  from  a  row  of  Tommies  who,  stripped  to  the 
waist,  were  enjoying  an  al  fresco  toilet.  From  sur- 
rounding huts  and  tents  came  a  hum  of  mirth,  con- 
versation, and  song;  and  out  of  the  medley  I  heard 
one  voice,  in  a  spasm  of  innocent  exuberation,  ab- 
ruptly carol  forth: 

"Oh  my! 

I  don't  want  to  die;— 
I  want  to  go  'ome  to  my  murrer." 


HOLINESS  AND  HEROISM  127 

Another  element  in  that  background  of  sound  was 
the  muffled  growling  of  artillery. 

Reaching  the  Quartermaster's  store — which 
proved  to  be  a  conglomeration  of  military  requisites, 
ranging  from  dynamite  to  dominoes — Quartermas- 
ter A.  A.  Rowe  introduced  me  to  Quartermaster- 
sergeant  J.  Powell,  who,  after  seeing  the  visitor  com- 
fortably seated  on  an  upturned  box,  went  in  quest 
of  tea,  buttered  toast,  and  Sergeant  Withers.  Not 
that  I  had  asked  for  anything  or  anybody.  But  on 
official  introduction  my  regiment  was  indicated  as 
the  Salvation  Army,  and  there  was  a  keen  look  on 
the  radiant  face  of  Quartermaster-sergeant  Powell. 

Asquat  a  case  of  hand-grenades,  Sergeant  T.  D. 
Withers,  of  Fleetwood,  was  soon  telling  me  how, 
as  a  self-righteous  lad  who  actually  taught  in  a 
Sunday-school,  he  experienced  the  transforming  reve- 
lation of  his  own  unworthiness,  and  had  since  lived 
by  faith  in  humble  dependence  on  imparted  guid- 
ance. When  he  lapsed  into  reliance  on  his  own  judg- 
ment (as  in  courting  a  first  sweetheart),  things  went 
wrong;  when  he  asked  direction  (as  in  choosing  his 
beloved  wife),  happiness  resulted. 

For  Sergeant  Withers  spoke  with  a  beautiful  can- 
dour, and  in  a  gentle  voice,  his  mind  full  of  trust 
and  happiness,  like  a  little  child's. 

"And,"  I  put  the  superfluous  question,  "you  live 
under  fire  by  faith?" 

He  smiled  and  answered: 

"What  other  way  is  possible?  Shall  I  give  you 
one  instance — one  among  so  many?  The  commu- 
nication trenches  were  battered  in,  and  we  had  to 
go  across  a  bit  of  top  ground  that  the  Germans 


128  SOULS  IN  KHAKI 

could  see,  which  made  it  impossible  to  get  into  the 
front  lines,  or  come  out  of  them,  by  daylight.  Well, 
one  night,  when  our  company  was  going  in,  the  moon 
lit  up  the  whole  place  so  brightly  that  we  were  cer- 
tain to  be  spotted.  For  a  few  minutes  I  thought, 
'So  this  is  the  end  for  some  of  us' ;  then  I  remem- 
bered and  prayed.  I  did  not  see  how  it  could  be 
done,  but  I  prayed,  *O  Lord,  the  bright  moonlight; 
get  rid  of  the  bright  moonlight,  dear  Lord/  And 
just  as  we  entered  the  dangerous  part,  a  cloud,  which 
I  hadn't  seen  before,  went  right  in  front  of  the  moon, 
and  we  walked  across  the  ground  in  darkness  and 
safety.  Then,  as  soon  as  the  last  man  was  in  the 
trenches,  out  came  the  moon  again  as  bright  as  ever." 

As  he  told  me  of  this,  his  voice  sank  to  a  quaver- 
ing whisper,  and  his  eyes  were  moist — facts-  which 
were  to  acquire  a  new  significance  in  the  retrospect, 
two  minutes  later. 

The  Sergeant  had  modestly  withdrawn  upon  the 
return  of  Quartermaster  Rowe — that  splendid  sol- 
dier, the  claret  ribbon  on  his  breast  (though  I  did 
not  know  this  at  the  time)  celebrated  thirty-three 
years  of  military  service.  And  these  were  the  first 
words  uttered  by  the  Quartermaster  when  we  were 
alone: 

"Been  having  a  chat,  I  see,  with  Sergeant  With- 
ers. Well,  I  wonder  if  you  knew  you  were  talking 
to  one  of  the  bravest  men  in  the  British  Army? 
In  the  affair  last  week  he  was  simply  wonderful — 
here,  there,  and  everywhere,  rescuing  the  wounded, 
carrying  ammunition,  helping  everybody;  and  amid 
that  hurricane  of  shell  fire,  which  went  on  for  seven 
hours  and  a  half,  mind — and  it  was  then  we  had  our 


HOLINESS  AND  HEROISM 

heaviest  losses — all  the  time  he  was  as  busy  in  as- 
sisting others,  and  as  forgetful  of  himself,  as  a  man 
could  be.  I  tell  you,  some  of  us  have  put  in  a  strong 
recommendation  that  Sergeant  Withers'  services  on 
that  occasion  should  be  officially  recognised." 

"That  affair  last  week — what  was  it?"  I  asked. 

"We  recaptured  the  International  trench,  and  took 
other  trenches  just  beyond — on  the  Bluff,  you  know. 
Not  a  very  big  operation,  no  doubt,"  he  modestly 
added,  "and  perhaps  it  didn't  impress  you  very 
much." 

But,  indeed,  as  the  reader  will  not  need  to  be 
told,  it  impressed  me  deeply.  For  had  I  not  met 
wounded  heroes  of  that  fight  on  their  arrival  by 
train  at  the  base?  And  had  I  not  afterwards  be- 
come personally  acquainted  with  many  of  those  he- 
roes as  they  lay  in  the  Casino  hospital? 

It  was  appropriate  and  congenial  that  the  battle 
experiences  now  to  be  disclosed  should  be  those  in 
which  my  friends  had  been  involved. 


CHAPTER  X 

THE   BATTLE   OF  THE   BLUFF 

The  Quartermaster's  story — Seven  hours  of  din  and  slaughter — 
Mothering  the  prisoners — A  Lieutenant's  experiences:  held, 
wounded,  crippled,  threatened  and  cheerful — Concerning 
death:  fallacies  confuted  by  experience — Mrs.  Booth  and  the 
Empress  mourners — The  best-liked  man  of  the  regiment — A 
War  Cry  monopoly — Droll  adventure  of  the  Mascot — A  gun- 
ner's eloquent  silence — The  Teetotal  Division — No  use  for  rum 
rations — The  Quartermaster  and  the  Salvation  Army:  an  un- 
expected tribute — "My  little  red  jersey." 

CONCERNING  the  "International"  affair,  Quarter- 
master Rowe  proved  a  graphic,  if  reluctant,  witness. 
"Ah,"  he  said,  "it  isn't  for  us— we're  the  8th 
King's  Own  Royal  Lancasters,  you  know — to  say 
much  about  it,  because,  well"  (his  manner  revealing 
interesting  cross-currents  of  attempted  reticence  and 
involuntary  pride) ,  "we  were  given  the  place  of  hon- 
our— I  mean,  the  middle,  which  had  to  begin  the  at- 
tack— with  the  ist  Gordons  on  one  side,  and  the  2nd 
Suffolks  on  the  other,  to  follow  on.  Well,  sir,  it  was 
all  over  very  soon — the  actual  fighting,  I  mean — and 
we  had  captured  the  trenches  and  taken  our  pris- 
oners, when  the  continuous  shelling  began;  the  bar- 
rage, or  curtain  fire,  as  it  is  called,  which  we  put 
over  on  the  Germans  to  bar  reinforcements,  and 
which  they  put  over  on  us  to  keep  off  our  supplies 

130 


THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  BLUFF          131 

and  hem  us  in.  The  shells  that  fell  short  and  burst 
in  our  lines  did  heavy  execution,  especially  among 
the  wounded  and  those  who  were  looking  after  them. 
And,  as  I  say,  that  din  and  slaughter  went  on,"  he 
added  pensively,  "for  seven  and  a  half  hours." 

"Why  did  it  leave  off  then?"  I  asked. 

"Why?"  echoed  the  Quartermaster.  "Why? 
Well,  because  human  endurance  always  reaches  an 
end  at  last;  and  all  the  gunners  engaged  must  have 
been  ready  to  drop,  their  strength  entirely  spent. 
As  for  our  lads,  by  that  time  some  of  them  were 
pretty  far  gone,  too,  what  with  one  thing  or  an- 
other, including  thirst  and  the  want  of  food." 

"But  they  had  their  iron  rations?" 

"Yes,"  exclaimed  the  Quartermaster,  "they  had 
their  iron  rations,  and  they  had  the  tea  in  their 
flasks;  but,  would  you  believe  it?" — and  he  lifted 
his  hands,  genially  aghast — "they  gave  nearly  all 
that  food  and  drink  to  the  prisoners!  I've  had  a 
little  experience  of  soldiers — this  is  not  my  first 
campaign,  sir — but,  I  tell  you,  the  lads  are  a  mar- 
vel. In  the  actual  scrap  our  side  showed  plenty  of 
dash,  to  say  the  least,  and  certainly  no  victory  could 
have  been  more  complete;  but,  the  fighting  over, 
there  they  were  fussing  over  their  prisoners  (of 
whom  we  took  more  than  300)  like  a  lot  of  moth- 
ers. It  was,  'Cheer  up,  old  chap!5  and  'Buck  up, 
we  won't  hurt  you!'  and  'Don't  worry,  old  fellow; 
your  wounds  will  be  seen  to.'  I  heard  them  myself, 
for  the  shelling  hadn't  started  then;  and  they  were 
patting  them  on  the  back,  and  making  rough-and- 
ready  bandages  for  them  to  be  going  on  with,  and 
giving  them  tea  and  bully-beef  and  biscuits.  In 


132  SOULS  IN  KHAKI 

fact,"  added  the  Quartermaster,  as  he  tried  hard 
to  look  displeased,  but  entirely  failed  to  hide  his 
gratification — "In  fact,  I  sometimes  think  our  lads 
aren't  ft  to  go  to  war;  for  when  it  comes  to  the  hat- 
ing-your-enemy  part,  they  are  no  good  at  all." 

"Did  the  mothering  stop  when  the  shelling  be- 
gan?" 

"Stop!"  he  cried,  "not  a  bit  of  it.  There  were 
a  lot  of  casualties  among  men  who,  instead  of  taking 
cover,  remained  in  the  open  to  feed  the  prisoners, 
and  help  them  along,  and  look  after  them  generally. 
They  couldn't  do  enough  for  the  Germans  all  of 
a  sudden — the  very  same  Germans,  mind  you,  who 
for  days  and  weeks  and  months  had  been  sniping  and 
bombing  and  shelling  them  and  their  pals!" 

"You  say  you  had  heavy  losses?" 

"Yes,  indeed,"  replied  the  Quartermaster;  and 
for  a  while  he  was  silent,  his  gaze  directed  out  of 
the  little  window,  which  commanded  a  view  of  the 
tents  and  trees  and  a  browsing  goat.  When  he 
spoke  again,  the  exultation  had  for  the  moment  died 
out  of  his  manner. 

"We  went  in,"  he  said,  967  strong,  and  we  had 
320  casualties,  including  about  90  dead.  But  fig- 
ures don't  tell  you  much.  It's  when  you're  used  to 
sitting  down  ten  in  your  mess,  and  suddenly  you  find 
the  orderly  has  only  had  to  lay  for  six — that's  when 
it  comes  home  to  you.  And  then  to  think  that  you 
will  never  again  see  So-and-So,  though  the  sound  of 
his  bright  laughing  voice  is  still  ringing  in  your  ears; 
or  that  other  one,  who  was  so  sympathetic  and  use- 
ful and  your  special  friend.  Ah,  yes,  we  lost  a  lot 


THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  BLUFF          133 

of  fine  fellows,  including  some  splendid  young  offi- 
cers. But  how  gamely  they  fought  and  died!" 

Once  more  the  Quartermaster's  face  was  aglow, 
his  voice  vibrant  with  an  impersonal  pride. 

"We  had  a  Lieutenant  named  Bowden,"  he  said, 
"and  his  case  will  serve  to  show  you  what  1  mean. 
Such  a  pleasant,  light-hearted,  and  capable  young 
fellow  he  was,  absolutely  unselfish  and  as  brave  as 
the  bravest.  Well,  in  the  opening  charge  he  had  the 
bad  luck  to  get  impaled  on  barbed  wire.  There  he 
stuck  helpless,  an  easy  target  for  the  enemy.  In 
quick  succession  he  received  two  severe  lung  wounds, 
after  which  a  bullet  shattered  his  left  shoulder. 
Then  he  saw  a  German  advancing  with  fixed  bayonet 
to  run  him  through  the  body.  It  was  a  terrible  po- 
sition— held,  wounded,  threatened  and  crippled;  but 
Lieutenant  Bowden  kept  his  head.  Stealthily  draw- 
ing his  revolver  and  carefully  choosing  his  mo- 
ment, he  fired  point-blank  at  the  German  and  brought 
him  down.  Next  minute  a  bullet  struck  Bowden's 
right  shoulder;  'and  then/  he  afterwards  said  with  a 
bright  smile,  'I  thought  I  had  done  my  bit,  so  I 
curled  over/  ' 

"He  survived,  then?" 

"Yes,  long  enough  to  have  his  wounds  attended 
to  at  the  dressing  station.  Then,  as  he  lay  on  a 
stretcher  awaiting  removal,  a  bursting  shell  wiped 
him  and  the  stretcher  out  of  existence." 

And  note  that  a  moment  later  the  Quartermaster 
and  I  were  talking  lightly  about  something  else. 

For  to  visit  the  Front  is  to  find  yourself  at  close 
quarters  with  supreme  truths,  which,  accordingly, 
are  seen  with  a  new  distinctness.  During  peace  and 


134  SOULS  IN  KHAKI 

prosperity  (the  soil  in  which  Agnosticism  flour- 
ishes) we  are  apt  to  look  upon  the  inevitable  mortal 
culmination  of  death  as  a  dire  catastrophe,  though 
happily  a  catastrophe  so  rare  and  remote  that  one 
need  not  think  about  it — a  string  of  fallacies  which 
are  blown  to  pieces  at  the  Front.  Death  there  is 
anything  but  rare  and  remote :  it  is  seen  near  at  hand 
and  frequently,  and  in  the  close  view  it  is  revealed 
far  more  often  as  a  glorious  climax  than  as  a  gloomy 
tragedy. 

The  same,  of  course,  is  true  of  death  in  the  family 
circle.  In  its  actual  presence  we  usually  find  the 
bereaved  ones  composed  and  upheld,  instead  of  be- 
side themselves,  as  we  had  pictured  their  pitiful  case. 
Death  by  them  is  recognised  as  a  transition,  a  tem- 
porary parting,  a  going  on  ahead — as  a  beginning 
rather  than  an  ending.  Nor  can  I  forbear  in  this 
connection  from  recalling  an  instructive  sequel  to 
the  loss  of  many  Salvationists  on  the  s.s.  Empress 
of  Ireland.  At  a  memorial  service  in  London,  Mrs. 
Bramwell  Booth,  telling  how  she  had  visited  the 
bereaved  families  in  England,  spoke  of  her  relief  and 
gratitude  at  finding  them  marvellously  sustained  by 
grace,  instead  of  being  in  the  grief-distraught  condi- 
tion her  imagination  had  suggested. 

And  so,  as  I  say,  from  the  splendid  vantage  point 
of  the  Front,  death  loses  its  false  character  of  a 
grim  and  monstrous  calamity.  At  the  Front  one  un- 
derstands, without  mental  fumbling,  about  the  liv- 
ing soul  of  the  dead  boy.  At  the  Front  one  finds, 
among  our  lads  generally,  the  bright  eyes  and  happy 
hearts  that  reveal  peace  and  understanding. 

But  to  resume  my  narrative.    Quartermaster-Ser- 


TPIE  BATTLE  OF  THE  BLUFF          135 

geant  Powell  returned  to  the  store,  and,  addressing 
me,  said: 

"I've  been  trying  to  find  some  one  I  should  very 
much  like  you  to  meet.  Seeing  you  so  interested  in 
Sergeant  Withers,  I  know  how  delighted  you  would 
be  with  Sergeant  Towndrow.  He  is  such  a  quiet,  un- 
assuming fellow,  and  yet,  do  you  know,  he's  one  of 
the  most  splendid  influences  and  best-liked  men  in 
the  camp.  But  unfortunately  I  find  he  has  gone 
down  to  hospital." 

"That  is  news  to  me,"  commented  the  Quarter- 
master, "and  bad  news.  It  must  be  something  seri- 
ous, for  he  wouldn't  easily  give  in.  Yes;  Sergeant 
Towndrow  is  the  means  of  helping  many  of  his  com- 
rades. He's  a  very,  very  fine  fellow." 

Conversation  was  here  interrupted  by  the  arrival 
of  a  messenger;  and,  business  temporarily  claiming 
the  attention  of  both  my  companions,  I  set  forth 
alone  on  a  stroll  round  the  camp.  Nor  was  it  long 
before  my  wandering  footsteps  had  brought  me  to 
the  large  recreation  hut,  where  I  made  two  nota- 
ble discoveries.  Outside  there  lay  on  the  ground 
250  shovels — destined  for  the  working-party  which, 
after  nightfall,  were  to  visit  newly  acquired  trenches 
for  the  double  purpose  of  recovering  the  dead  and 
rebuilding  parapets.  Inside,  the  perspective  of 
chairs  and  tables  revealed  three  journals  open  for 
perusal:  one  in  the  foreground,  another  in  the  mid- 
dle distance,  a  third  at  the  far  end;  and  on  inves- 
tigation I  found  that  the  first  was  half  of  the  past 
week's  War  Cry,  while  the  second  proved  to  be  the 
other  half,  and  the  third  turned  out  to  be  none  other 
than  an  entire  second  copy  of  the  same  issue. 


136  SOULS  IN  KHAKI 

"Who  put  these  War  Crys  here?"  I  asked  a  pri- 
vate engaged  in  writing  a  letter. 

"I  don't  know  for  certain,"  he  replied,  "but  I  ex- 
pect it  was  Sergeant  Towndrow." 

Then  I  returned  to  the  store  and  to  the  society 
of  my  two  friends. 

"Have  you  mentioned  about  the  Mascot,  sir?" 
the  Sergeant  asked  his  superior. 

"No,"  came  the  reply,  "but  he  must  hear  about 
the  Mascot";  and  the  genial  Quartermaster  broke 
into  a  hearty  laugh.  "You  tell  him.  I  must  run 
away  now  and  see  the  Adjutant." 

"The  Mascot" — I  was  soon  learning — "is  a  droll 
little  chap  whom  everybody  likes,  and  we  give  him 
that  nickname  because  he's  our  smallest  man — in 
fact,  goodness  knows  how  he  got  into  the  Army  at 
all.  Well,  the  boys  had  just  gone  over  the  parapet, 
and  an  officer  went  hurrying  along  to  see  the  last 
man  out  of  the  trenches,  when  who  should  he  find 
left  behind  but  the  poor  little  Mascot,  who  was  mak- 
ing prodigious  efforts  to  climb  up,  and  was  almost 
choking  with  mortification  because  he  kept  slipping 
back.  'Here!  Get  over,'  said  the  officer;  where- 
upon the  Mascot  frantically  twisted  round,  saluted, 
and  said,  almost  with  tears  in  his  eyes,  'Please,  sir, 
would  you  mind  giving  me  a  bump  up?'  So  the 
officer  assisted  his  ascent,  the  Mascot  losing  no  time 
in  grabbing  the  four  bombs  he  had  pushed  on  ahead 
of  his  own  movements.  With  one  bomb  in  each 
hand  and  the  others  in  his  pocket,  away  darted  the 
excited  Mascot,  the  officer  following  close  on  his 
heels.  And  soon  the  Mascot  stopped  at  a  little  length 
of  trench  that  had  not  detained  the  main  body  in 


THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  BLUFF          137 

their  dash  forward.  In  rapid  succession  he  threw 
two  bombs,  which  duly  exploded,  and  he  was  already 
in  the  act  of  taking  aim  with  a  third  when  his  de- 
meanour underwent  an  abrupt  change,  and,  standing 
there  without  moving,  he  gazed  helplessly  down  upon 
the  enemy  he  had  assaulted  with  so  much  spirit.  'Go 
on,  throw  the  others/  shouted  the  officer,  who,  as  he 
came  up,  could  see  a  group  of  gesticulating  Germans 
at  the  farther  end  of  the  trench.  'But,  sir,  they  want 
to  surrender!7  cried  the  Mascot  in  a  quavering,  awe- 
struck voice;  and,  sure  enough,  the  officer  found  them 
with  outstretched  hands,  and  pleading  for  'Maircy, 
Komerade!'  'All  right;  take  them  prisoners,  then,7 
ordered  the  officer,  as  he  hurried  on  to  the  main  bat- 
tlefield." 

"Which  left  the  Mascot  with  rather  a  heavy  re- 
sponsibility, one  would  think?" 

"Yes,  but  he  wa^s  quite  equal  to  it.  As  he  was  in 
possession  of  bombs  those  Germans  were  quick  to 
lay  down  their  arms  at  his  direction.  It  seems  he 
had  knocked  out  four,  but  there  were  eight  left. 
And  the  strange  thing  is  that  he  brought  them  all 
safely  through  the  seven  and  a  half  hours'  shelling. 
Being  so  proud  of  his  prisoners,  he  must  have  taken 
the  most  scrupulous  pains  to  keep  them  out  of  harm's 
way;  and  no  one  who  saw  it  will  ever  forget  the 
scene  next  morning,  when  he  brought  his  prisoners 
into  camp.  A  Highlander  led  the  way,  then  in  sin- 
gle file  came  the  eight  prisoners,  and  behind  them 
marched  the  Mascot.  His  head  was  held  well  back 
and  his  chest  was  thrown  well  out,  but,  compared 
with  those  burly  Germans,  he  looked  smaller  than 
ever.  'Why,  what  have  you  got  there?'  asked  an 


138  SOULS  IN  KHAKI 

officer  on  their  arrival.  'My  captives,  sir/  replied 
the  Mascot." 

Still  more  light  was  destined  to  be  thrown  on  the 
psychology  of  the  regiment  to  which  I  was  tempo- 
rarily attached. 

During  the  evening,  business  brought  to  the  store 
a  succession  of  privates  and  N.C.O.'s.,  and  nearly 
all  lingered  for  a  word  or  two  of  gossip. 

Only  one  subject  was  referred  to — the  recent  en- 
gagement. Nearly  always  the  allusion  was  to  lost 
comrades  or  stern  vicissitudes  of  the  fight,  and  al- 
ways the  speaker  and  his  hearers  were  involved  in 
a  common  ecstasy  that  rounded  their  cheeks  and 
put  a  sparkle  in  their  eyes. 

Upon  the  entrance  of  a  certain  machine-gun  Ser- 
geant there  was  a  general  hush,  for  it  seemed  he 
had  had  some  epic  experiences  in  his  corner  of  the 
hurly-burly,  so  that  his  reminiscences  were  eagerly 
awaited.  But  he  merely  stood  bolt  upright,  slowly 
repeating:  "Aye,  aye,  it  were  tumble — tumble. 
I  want  na  more — I  want  na  more."  But  the  look  he 
fixed  on  space  was  a  look  of  absolute  rapture. 

A  reference  to  rum  rations  drew  interesting  dis- 
closures. 

"Yes,  they  have  to  be  served,"  said  the  Quarter- 
master-sergeant, "and  I,  who  am  a  life-long  ab- 
stainer, have  to  see  they  are  available.  On  the  day 
we  have  been  referring  to,  I  sent  the  rum  to  the 
trenches  and  the  Colonel  sent  it  back.  The  division 
we  belong  to,  while  sometimes  called  the  Iron  Di- 
vision, is  usually  known  as  the  Teetotal  Division. 
By  no  means  all  the  men  are  teetotallers,  but  there 
is  a  heavy  percentage  who  are.  Some  of  us  look  in 


THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  BLUFF         139 

that  direction  to  explain  the  efficiency  which  belongs 
— or  at  any  rate  is  said  to  belong — to  our  division." 

Callers  gradually  dropped  off,  and  as  the  hour  of 
midnight  drew  near  I  was  persuaded  to  seek  repose 
on  the  camp  bedstead  so  kindly  placed  at  my  disposal 
in  the  store.  But  it  was  my  firm  resolve  not  to  go  to 
sleep.  The  Quartermaster-sergeant  had  announced 
his  intention  to  remain  awake  until  the  return  of  our 
search  party  in  the  small  hours,  when  he  was  anx- 
ious to  help  in  supplying  them  with  food.  Fain 
would  the  visitor  have  emulated  that  generosity; 
but,  alas,  promptly  did  I  succumb  to  the  soothing 
lullaby  of  bursting  shells  and  gnawing  rats. 

Nor  did  an  orderly  wake  me  until  the  store  was 
bathed  in  sunlight  and  we  were  well  embarked  on 
the  day  that  was  to  witness  the  strange  adventures 
that  befell  me  in  passing  through  Ypres  to  the 
trenches. 

The  Quartermaster  insisted  on  accompanying  me 
to  the  car,  when,  with  a  final  grip  of  the  hand,  he 
said: 

"I  shall  always  have  a  soft  place  in  my  heart  for 
the  Salvation  Army.  As  a  lad  of  twelve  at  Peckham 
I  belonged  to  it,  and  very  proud  I  was  of  my  little 
red  jersey.  But  there  is  a  deeper  reason  for  what 
I  feel  towards  General  Booth  and  his  people.  A 
relative  of  mine  went  down  and  down  until  he  seemed 
utterly  lost  and  beyond  anybody's  help.  But  the  Sal- 
vation Army  reached  him  and  lifted  him  up  and  put 
him  on  his  feet  again.  Some  of  us  can  never  forget 
that,  and  never  be  sufficiently  grateful.  Whenever 
I  meet  a  Salvationist  officer  or  soldier  I  think  of 
what  we  owe  to  the  Army.  And  I  never  see  a  Sal- 


140  SOULS  IN  KHAKI 

vationist  taking  up  a  collection,"  he  added,  "but  I 
put  something  in  the  box." 

It  was  good  to  hear  that  six  feet  and  fourteen 
stone  of  robust,  wholesome  manhood,  talking  about 
his  "little  red  jersey." 


CHAPTER  XI 

A  VISIT  TO  YPRES 

The  distraught-looking  lunatic  asylum — A  civic  nightmare — Ar- 
rested— Taken  before  the  authorities — Permission  to  look  round 
— A  city  of  brand-new  ruins — Shells  prettily  bursting — Skel- 
eton walls  and  hillocks  of  debris — The  song  of  the  birds — 
Inside  the  wrecked  cathedral — Unexploded  shells — Looking  for 
the  Cloth  Hall — A  tour  of  private  houses — Pathetic  medley  of 
domestic  articles — The  surviving  garden — Corporal  Clegg  and 
the  wounded  bird — Confidences  in  a  church — His  Salvationist 
associations — Ypres  by  moonlight — My  droll  predicament. 

As  my  military  chauffeur  was  bumping  across  mend- 
ed shell  holes,  and  dodging  round  the  other  kind, 
I  espied  a  silent,  smokeless  city,  and  exclaimed : 

"What  place  is  this  we  are  coming  to?" 

"Ypres,"  replied  my  preoccupied  companion;  and 
it  was  exciting  news. 

So,  after  all,  here  was  I  about  to  enter  the  famous 
city,  and  under  conditions  ideal  for  observation, 
namely,  at  ten  o'clock  on  a  brilliant  sunny  March 
morning. 

Already  were  we  passing  a  great  building,  obvi- 
ously of  recent  date,  that  stood  back  in  its  grounds; 
but  instead  of  forming  a  straight  line,  the  fagade 
met  the  sky  in  a  zig-zag  of  brickwork  and  masonry 
dented,  holed,  and  smashed.  Breaks  and  blemishes 

141 


SOULS  IN  KHAKI 

also  showed  lower  on  the  frontage,  as  also  along  the 
enclosing  wall  beside  the  road. 

I  had  grown  accustomed  to  shattered  country  cot- 
tages and  collapsed  farm  buildings.  Indeed,  for 
days  I  had  moved  amid  picturesque  rural  ruins,  and 
my  eyes  had  ceased  to  be  acquainted  with  buildings 
in  their  normal  condition — namely,  whole,  tidy,  and 
inhabited.  But  this  was  the  first  time  I  had  seen  a 
large  specimen  of  modern  architecture  that  had  been 
visited  by  high  explosives.  Because  the  building  was 
bright  and  new  there  was  something  uncannily 
squalid  in  the  scars  and  injuries  that  pitted  it.  With 
no  movement  at  chimneys  or  windows,  the  great 
building  gaped  lifeless  in  the  glare  of  the  sun. 

"It's  the  lunatic  asylum,"  explained  my  driver; 
and  that  is  just  what  it  looked  like — a  building  gone 
mad. 

But  another  fact  about  that  institution  came  to 
light  when  we  had  left  it  well  behind.  The  lunatic 
asylum,  probably  because  of  its  suburban  situation, 
had  not  been  nearly  so  badly  battered  as  other  in- 
stitutions of  Ypres.  We  were  now  entering  the  city 
proper,  where  it  looked  as  though  every  building, 
instead  of  being  merely  scarred,  had  suffered  severe 
amputation.  One  had  no  roof  or  chimney  stack,  half 
the  frontage  of  another  was  missing,  a  third  had 
lost  its  side  wall.  Ypres,  indeed,  was  a  city  of  houses 
that  were  partly  in  excellent  repair  and  partly  in 
hopeless  ruins ;  and  I  was  deep  in  the  contemplation 
of  this  civic  monstrosity — this  landlord's  nightmare 
— when  some  military  police  stopped  the  car  and 
demanded  to  see  my  papers. 

Nor  was  it  many  moments  before,  if  not  under 


A  VISIT  TO  YPRES  143 

arrest,  at  any  rate  under  compulsory  escort,  I  was 
taken  through  a  fortification  of  sandbags  and  ush- 
ered into  the  presence  of  a  certain  officer. 

While  admitting  that  my  authorisations  were  in- 
fluential and  comprehensive,  he  courteously  pointed 
o$it  that  I  lacked  the  necessary  permit  for  my  passage 
through  the  city.  To  secure  that  permit,  he  ex- 
plained, I  must  make  personal  application  at  a  spe- 
cified office  in  a  certain  town  less  than  fifty  miles 
away. 

It  seemed  there  were  other  blemishes  in  my  pro- 
gramme. 

"How  were  you  proposing,"  asked  the  officer,  "to 
get  to  the th  brigade  headquarters?" 

"The  chauffeur  promised  to  drive  me  as  far  as 
he  could,"  was  my  reply,  "and  I  was  going  to  walk 
the  rest." 

"What!  in  broad  daylight?"  exclaimed  the  offi- 
cer. "Why,  you  would  be  under  fire  nearly  all  the 
way.  Those  headquarters  can  only  be  reached  after 
dark." 

Whereupon,  apologising  for  the  unintentional  ir- 
regularity of  my  conduct,  and  promising  to  return 
anon  with  the  necessary  document  in  my  possession, 
I  was  about  to  withdraw,  when  a  cheerful  looking 
police  sergeant,  with  a  thoughtfulness  for  which  I 
could  not  feel  sufficiently  grateful,  turned  to  his 
superior,  and,  in  a  confidential  aside,  said: 

"Seeing  he  is  here,  sir,  perhaps  there  would  be 
no  harm  in  letting  him  run  up  and  see  the  Cloth 
Hall?" 

"Oh,  all  right — give  him  a  guide,"  rapped  out 
the  officer,  almost  with  the  air  of  a  man  who  does 


144?  SOULS  IN  KHAKI 

not  wish  his  official  right  hand  to  know  what  his 
fraternal  left  hand  is  doing. 

And  the  military  police  sergeant  summoned  a  mili- 
tary police  corporal,  with  whom  (after  informing 
my  chauffeur  of  the  new  turn  events  had  taken) 
I  set  out  on  foot,  in  a  state  of  lively  gratitude,  to  in- 
spect Ypres. 

A  sunny  city  of  brand-new  ruins — such  was  the 
scene  of  our  saunter.  It  was  a  khaki-coloured  city, 
wondrous  picturesque,  placid,  and  (forgive  me  for 
saying)  peaceful.  True,  occasional  shells  were 
bursting  to  right  and  left  of  us,  but  they  were  at 
any  rate  bursting  very  prettily — that  is  to  say,  above 
the  artificial  dilapidations  one  sometimes  saw  (when 
one  happened  to  be  looking  in  the  right  direction) 
either  an  instantaneous  flash  or  an  expanding  shape 
of  yellow-white  woolliness>  suggestive  of  an  aerial 
polar  bear. 

After  proceeding  along  several  thoroughfares, 
one  had  a  definite  sense  of  Ypres  as  an  architectural 
unity — every  building  being  a  ruin;  and  while  any- 
thing like  monotony  was  prevented  by  variations  of 
elevation  and  of  structural  bulk,  adjoining  buildings 
were  apt  to  merge  together  in  a  common  heap  of 
co-mingled  bricks,  stone,  and  mortar.  Wherever 
premises  were  at  all  exposed — not  merely  to  the 
weather,  but  to  certain  metal  cylinders  that  travel, 
swift  and  invisible,  through  the  weather — those 
premises  had  become  grey  hillocks  of  ceilings,  doors, 
floors,  windows,  chairs,  tiles,  bedsteads,  and  lime 
dust;  perhaps  partly  sheltered  by  some  fragmentary 
skeleton  of  surviving  outer  brickwork. 

Here  and  there  I  saw  shutters   (protected  by  a 


A  VISIT  TO  YPRES  145 

screen  of  sandbags)  across  what  had,  no  doubt, 
been  business  premises;  but  shop  fronts  were  not 
otherwise  visible.  Of  the  baker,  the  butcher,  the 
ironmonger,  and  their  fellow-tradesmen,  there  re- 
mained no  sign.  Obviously  the  Ypres  shops  had 
long  since  been  blown  to  smithereens — smashed,  pul- 
verised, and  obliterated.  And  those  other  accus- 
tomed attributes  of  a  city — the  pedestrians,  the  ve- 
hicular traffic,  the  children  at  play,  the  dogs  and 
cats — Ypres  lacked  them  also.  It  was  a  city  with- 
out movement,  animation,  or  noise  (beyond  the  oc- 
casional boom  and  rumble  of  exploding  shells). 

There  appeared  to  be  only  two  things  happening 
at  Ypres — it  was  being  blasted,  bit  by  bit;  and  many 
wrens  and  finches  were  singing  among  its  ruins. 

Never  for  my  ears  had  the  flutings  and  whistling 
of  little  birds  been  richer  in  sweetness  and  signifi- 
cance. Somehow  the  gentle  music  seemed  to  smother 
the  rougher  sound,  as  though  eternal  wisdom  were 
revealed  in  contrast  to  a  temporary  triviality. 

We  visited  the  cathedral  of  St.  Martin — or, 
rather,  the  broken  skeleton  of  what  once  was  the 
cathedral  of  St.  Martin.  There  still  survived  jagged 
and  perforated  portions  of  the  hard  outer  case, 
with  here  a  nobility  of  design  in  the  arch  of  a  win- 
dow and  there  some  choice  embellishment  of  stone 
carving.  Otherwise  one  saw  little  to  indicate  a 
sacred  edifice,  let  alone  a  noble  architectural  relic 
of  the  thirteenth  century. 

The  early  Gothic  nave  and  aisles,  the  superb  rose 
window,  the  late  Renaissance  choir  stalls,  the  altars, 
fonts,  pillars,  and  tombs — these  were  nothing  but 
chips,  splinters,  and  dust,  piled  high  in  heaps  that 


146  SOULS  IN  KHAKI 

we  had  perforce  to  climb  in  getting  from  one  part 
of  the  building  to  another. 

Other  mounds  upon  the  cathedral  floor  were 
formed  of  cheap  furniture,  wearing  apparel,  do- 
mestic utensils — aye,  and  children's  toys.  For  in 
early  days  of  the  bombardment  of  Ypres,  poor 
citizens,  finding  themselves  in  the  midst  of  burst- 
ing shells,  conveyed  their  property  to  the  cathedral 
for  safety;  and  there  it  remained,  all  higgledy- 
piggledy,  and  thick  in  dust  from  the  avalanches 
of  shattered  masonry  that  occurred  when  projec- 
tiles hit  walls  near  by. 

From  the  cathedral,  concerned  to  find  the  Cloth 
Hall,  we  set  off  across  the  market-place — still  a 
fine  open  space,  though  garnished  on  its  margins 
with  huge  shell  holes,  some  of  which  had  become 
reservoirs  of  rain-water.  Also  on  the  debris-strewn 
edge  of  that  great  square  we  saw  an  unexploded 
German  shell — of  which,  indeed,  several  counter- 
parts were  destined  to  be  revealed  on  our  protracted 
exploration  of  the  city.  The  least  tap — my  com- 
panion warned  me — might  cause  them  to  explode; 
but,  however  that  might  be,  I  felt  little  temptation 
to  tamper  with  those  faulty  canisters  of  pent-up 
mischief. 

Again  we  walked  along  some  of  Ypres*  leading 
thoroughfares — to  wit,  more  or  less  open  avenues 
between  lines  of  bruised  and  crumpled  architec- 
ture, where  gabled  Gothic  and  seventeenth-century 
facades  had  been  transformed  into  the  general  like- 
ness of  a  disused  limekiln. 

"Strange!"  my  baffled  companion  was  presently 
ruminating,  "I've  seen  the  Cloth  Hall — and  been 


A  VISIT  TO  YPRES  147 

in  it,  too — often  enough,  though  not  just  lately. 
What's  more,  I  never  had  any  trouble  in  finding 
it  before." 

Driven  at  last  to  the  expedient  of  asking  a  com- 
rade in  khaki,  the  Corporal  learnt — and  at  once 
remembered  in  a  flood  of  self-reproaches — that  the 
Cloth  Hall  was  situated  alongside  the  cathedral. 
Whereupon  we  humbly  bent  our  steps  (for  about 
the  sixth  time)  to  the  great  market-place,  there  to 
make  the  strange  discovery  that  we  had  not  only 
seen  the  Cloth  Hall  already,  but  had  actually  been 
inside  it — so  far,  at  least,  as  it  is  possible  to  be  in- 
side a  building  which  has  ceased  to  have  a  roof,  or 
any  structural  interior,  but  is  merely  an  area  littered 
with  rubble,  and  bounded  in  part  by  the  gaunt  relics 
of  what  once  were  walls  of  classic  beauty. 

As,  unfortunately,  neither  of  us  had  a  map  of 
Ypres,  it  was  largely  a  matter  of  guess  work  to 
determine  where  one  building  ended  and  another 
began.  But  at  least,  on  studying  chaos  in  the  light 
of  our  new  knowledge,  I  was  able  to  appreciate  the 
conditions  of  comparative  shelter  which  had  allowed 
one  of  the  cathedral  entrances,  profusely  embel- 
lished with  carvings  of  sacred  significance,  to  sur- 
vive almost  intact.  A  disabled  cannon  on  its  limber 
was  picturesquely  entangled  with  the  blocks  of  stone 
that  partly  encumbered  the  entrance  archway. 

Having  now  at  last  finished  with  the  buildings 
of  note,  we  wandered  into  a  quarter  of  the  city 
where,  because  the  thoroughfares  were  narrow,  many 
houses  had  been  less  exposed  to  frontal  damage 
than  was  the  case  elsewhere.  Doors  and  windows, 
it  is  true,  had  for  the  most  part  been  blown  in,  but 


148  SOULS  IN  KHAKI 

here  and  there  was  a  house  having  the  ground  floor 
structurally  intact,  so  that  we  walked  through  par- 
lours and  into  kitchens,  gazing  upon  a  pathetic  lit- 
ter of  papers,  pictures,  furniture,  books,  cooking 
pans,  clothing,  and  miscellaneous  domestic  objects. 

In  one  doorless  house  I  opened  a  cupboard,  to 
find  on  a  shelf  three  rusty  door  keys.  In  another 
I  noted  upon  the  floor  a  child's  broken  sabot,  and 
balls  of  crotchet  cotton  attached  to  an  unfinished 
doll's  garment.  In  yet  a  third  parlour,  where  a 
bedstead  hung  halfway  through  a  hole  in  the  ceil- 
ing, I  saw  a  shattered  rocking-horse  lying  in  com- 
pany with  pieces  of  shrapnel. 

But  all  was  not  sadness  even  in  those  streets  of 
stricken  homes.  For  we  came  upon  a  little  garden 
which,  because  screened  by  a  close  succession  of  thick 
walls,  had  been  unvisited  by  shells  and  unsullied  by 
powdered  bricks  and  mortar.  Out  of  the  black  soil 
bright  green  shoots  were  sprouting,  and  in  one  bed 
was  a  glorious  clump  of  daffodils. 

And  still  the  sun  was  shining,  still  the  sky  was 
blue,  and  still  a  song  of  optimism  was  sounding  over- 
head. But  my  companion  said,  rather  abruptly: 

"I'm  surprised  at  you,  sir." 

"Why,  what  have  I  done?"  I  asked  in  consterna- 
tion, unable  to  surmise  the  social  delinquency  of 
which  he  had  found  me  guilty. 

"You  don't  seem  to  mind  the  shelling  at  all,"  he 
explained. 

"Well,  I'm  sorry,"  was  my  apologetic  reply,  "but 
I'm  afraid  I  had  forgotten  all  about  it." 

"Can't  you  hear  it?"  he  protested. 

"I  do  now.     But  when  you  spoke  I  was  listening 


A  VISIT  TO  YPRES  149 

to  something  else.  Hark!  Don't  you  know  what 
I  mean?" 

The  Corporal  obviously  made  conscientious  but 
unavailing  efforts  with  his  ears. 

"Oh,  the  birds/'  he  was  presently  echoing.  "Yes, 
they  seem  in  full  song,  don't  they?  And  that  brings 
to  mind  something  which  happened  yesterday.  I 
was  coming  down  the  next  street  to  this  when  what 
should  I  notice  in  the  roadway  but  a  little  bird! 
You  could  see  it  was  injured  by  the  way  it  flut- 
tered; and  when  I  took  it  up  in  my  hand  I  found 
that  both  its  legs  had  been  broken.  A  shell  had, 
no  doubt,  done  that  for  the  poor  little  thing." 

And  there  was  pain  and  pity  in  his  voice. 

"Now,  I  mustn't  forget,"  my  painstaking  guide 
was  presently  adding,  "to  show  you  a  beautiful  little 
church  that's  not  far  from  here.  It  hasn't  suffered 
like  the  others." 

For,  in  our  leisurely  explorations,  he  had  already 
taken  me  to  some  half-dozen  churches  and  several 
shrines — most  of  them  in  a  state  of  pitiful  collapse 
and  disarray — yet  in  no  instance  (so  far  as  I  had 
noted)  with  any  harm  done  to  the  crucifix. 

As  we  walked  towards  the  church,  it  chanced  that 
we  met  a  few  sight-seeing  Tommies,  who,  like  others 
previously  encountered,  were  obviously  in  a  placid, 
not  to  say  cheerful,  frame  of  mind.  And  their  smil- 
ing faces  seemed,  with  the  birds,  the  sunshine,  and 
the  blossoms,  to  be  all  links  in  one  golden  chain. 

On  arriving  at  our  new  destination,  I  found  that 
one  shell  had  hit  the  pulpit,  and  another  had  smashed 
through  the  roof  and  gallery;  but,  speaking  gen- 


150  SOULS  IN  KHAKI 

erally,  the  church  was  intact.  It  was  the  very  place 
for  a  chat. 

And  presently  my  companion  was  introducing  him- 
self as  Corporal  Clegg,  of  Stockport. 

"No,"  he  smiling  admitted,  "I'm  not  a  member 
of  the  Salvation  Army,  but  I  have  often  played  in 
the  Salvation  Army  band  at  Stockport.  I  have  a 
cousin  who  is  a  Salvationist,  and  I  never  came  across 
a  finer  woman  for  living  an  unselfish  life." 

"Good.  And  now  I  want  to  go  back  a  bit.  You 
remember  saying  you  were  surprised  because  I  didn't 
mind  the  shelling?  The  reason  why  I  don't  mind 
is  this;  I  have  a  feeling  of  being  safe  in  God's  keep- 
ing, and  that  whether  I  live  or  whether  I  die  is  a 
matter  in  His  hands.  I  came  out  with  the  resolve 
to  rely  wholly  upon  Him  and  not  in  the  slightest 
degree  on  myself;  and  though  I  have  always  re- 
garded myself  as  a  bit  of  a  funk,  there  was  not  a 
single  moment's  uneasiness  in  looking  forward  to 
coming,  and,  now  I  am  here,  there  is  no  fear — 
in  fact,  I  feel  thrills  of  pleasure  in  the  presence  of 
danger.  Why  I  am  saying  all  this  is  to  see  how  the 
matter  stands  with  you.  If  you  noticed  that  I  don't 
mind  the  shelling,  I  also  noticed  that  you  don't 
mind  it  either.  And  here  you  have  devoted  two 
hours  of  leisure  to  wandering  openly  about  the 
city  when  you  might  have  been  behind  sandbags 
or  safe  in  a  cellar.  Now,  I  want  to  know  if  you 
also  are  not  walking  by  faith  in  humble  reliance  on 
God?"  • 

"Yes,  sir,  I  am,"  was  the  Corporal's  emphatic 
reply;  and  there  was  corroboration  in  his  eyes. 

"And  don't  you  think,"   I   asked,   "that  it  is  a 


A  VISIT  TO  YPRES  151 

general  experience  out  here,  and  that  it  explains, 
for  instance,  the  happy  expressions  of  the  lads  we 
just  passed  on  the  road?" 

"I  am  sure,"  replied  Corporal  Clegg  with  con- 
viction, "that  that  is  so." 

However,  over  two  hours  having  been  occupied 
in  our  explorations,  it  behoved  me  to  be  moving 
on;  and  therefore,  after  tendering  thanks  to  the 
Corporal  and  apologies  to  the  chauffeur,  I  was  soon 
in  the  initial  stage  of  what  proved  a  troublesome 
and  protracted  business — namely,  the  procuring  of 
a  permit  to  pass  through  Ypres. 

Not,  indeed,  until  some  six  hours  later  was  the 
necessary  document  in  my  possession;  and  so  it  was 
well  after  sundown  when,  for  the  second  time  that 
day,  I  presented  myself  before  the  officer  previously 
referred  to,  whom,  by  the  way,  I  wished  to  con- 
sult about  a  difficulty  that  now  confronted  me. 

Divisional  headquarters  had  provided  me  with  a 
new  chauffeur,  who  said  he  could  carry  me  no 
farther  than  the  confines  of  the  city.  It  seemed 
he  had  grown  accustomed  to  the  risk  of  being  killed 
by  a  shell;  but  he  objected  to  going  into  open  coun- 
try which,  besides  affording  unhindered  scope  for 
exploding  projectiles,  was  presumably  swept  by  Ger- 
man bullets.  Nor,  of  course,  did  I  seek  to  alter  his 
decision,  though  it  left  me  wondering  what  I  was  to 
do  about  my  baggage,  which  must  on  no  account  be 
left  behind. 

The  courteous  officer,  on  gaining  a  clue  to  my 
predicament,  at  once  told  off  two  men  to  act  as  my 
guides  within  the  limits  of  his  authority.  "If  they 
care  to  take  you  beyond  the  city,"  he  added,  "I  shall 


r!52  SOULS  IN  KHAKI 

be  very  pleased  for  them  to  do  so;  but  they  must 
decide  that  point  for  themselves." 

They  decided  it  there  and  then — their  emphatic 
decision  duplicating  that  already  arrived  at  by  the 
chauffeur. 

Thereupon  the  officer  took  me  on  one  side,  and, 
with  the  aid  of  pencil  and  paper,  afforded  such  clear 
indications  of  my  route  as,  he  was  confident,  would 
enable  me  to  complete  my  journey  alone  and  on 
foot. 

A  few  minutes  later,  the  car,  with  the  two  new 
occupants,  was  resuming  its  journey  across  the  city. 

Ruined  Ypres,  bathed  in  moonlight  and  mystery, 
was  supremely  picturesque.  One  still  heard  the 
boom  and  bang  of  shells  bursting  far  and  near. 
The  car  plunged  forward  with  a  sort  of  muffled  pre- 
cipitancy. No  one  spoke.  We  were  all  staring 
ahead  into  the  grey  light,  to  see  whether  a  projectile 
fell  in  our  path. 

Here,  then,  was  danger  in  a  romantic  setting; 
and  I  felt  all  my  senses  pleasurably  alert.  Yet  an 
undignified  little  personal  problem  would  keep  in- 
truding itself. 

My  baggage  could  be  comfortably  carried  single- 
handed  for  only  a  few  yards  at  a  stretch;  and  the 
prospective  journey  on  foot  was  a  matter  of  mileage. 

In  imagination  I  saw  a  peaceful  pedestrian  floun- 
dering into  unknown  possibilities  and  unfamiliar  ter- 
ritory, a  heavily-laden  gladstone  bag  in  one  hand 
and  a  pair  of  gum  boots  in  the  other — his  forward 
progress  constantly  interrupted  by  spells  of  puffing 
and  blowing. 


CHAPTER  XII 

ADVENTURES  BY  MOONLIGHT 

At  brigade  headquarters — A  benign  General — His  hospitable  offer 
— Out  in  the  mist  once  more — My  placid  escorts — Confidence 
under  fire — The  workings  of  Divine  Justice — Mud,  rats,  and 
bullets — Meeting  sleepy  Tommies — White  crosses:  an  optical 
illusion — The  sentry's  challenge — Arrival  at  the  dug-outs — The 
doctor's  tidings — A  subterranean  surgery — Overtaking  wound- 
ed men — The  field  hospital — Suspected  as  a  spy — An  aston- 
ished surgeon. 

THE  expected  ordeal  was  averted. 

We  reached  open  country  to  find  it  shrouded  in 
ghostly  mist,  whereupon  my  companions  conferred 
privily  together;  their  deliberations  issuing  so 
favourably  that,  on  second  thoughts,  they  accom- 
panied me,  partly  awheel  and  partly  on  foot,  to 
the  queer-looking  structure  that  proved  to  be  my 
destination. 

I  thanked  those  three  lads,  and  bade  them  adieu, 
in  a  salute  which,  however  defective  in  military 
precision,  was  full  of  heartiness  and  sincerity.  Then 
it  was  my  experience  to  be  standing  among  khaki 
ghosts  in  the  milky  moonlight,  with  an  agreeable 
sense  of  having  reached  another  milestone  on  my 
journey  into  the  grim  unknown. 

For  note  how  the  civilian's  experiences  were  un- 
folding themselves  in  well-defined  stages  of  interest. 

153 


154  SOULS  IN  KHAKI 

To  begin  with,  officers  of  my  first  regiment,  whose 
sphere  was  west  of  Ypres,  had  thrown  a  new  glam- 
our over  that  city  by  representing  it  as  too  unsafe 
to  be  visited.  Then,  from  men  grown  accustomed 
to  Ypres  risks,  had  come  mention  of  superior  perils 
in  the  open  country  that  I  now  was  traversing. 

So  far  there  had  been  nothing  but  a  quick,  quiet 
journey  through  a  mile  or  so  of  silvery  haze.  But 
in  that  atmospheric  effect,  coupled  with  a  damp- 
ness in  the  night  air,  and  the  hush  brooding  over 
my  new  companions,  I  found  something  sufficiently 
impressive.  The  ear  noted,  if  not  new  sounds,  at 
any  rate  sounds  heard  in  a  new  perspective.  Well 
defined  was  the  spit-spit  of  rifle  fire,  but  every  now 
and  then  we  heard  nothing  but  a  machine-gun's  im- 
perious rat-a-tat-tat — like  some  one  knocking  on  a 
wooden  wall  near  by. 

Subdued  Tommies  ushered  me  into  a  primitive 
chamber  which  might  in  days  gone  by  have  wit- 
nessed the  making  of  cheese  or  the  baking  of  bread. 
At  the  head  of  a  long  table  sat  an  elderly  General, 
whose  benign,  polished  manner  lent  a  dignity  to  his 
rude  surroundings.  Distributed  about  the  apartment 
were  his  staff — all  young  men,  whose  preoccupations 
with  ink  and  paper  my  entrance  interrupted.  I 
gathered  that  people  did  not  often  drop  in  to  see 
them,  particularly  at  that  late  hour  in  the  evening. 
All  gave  the  visitor  a  most  fraternal  welcome,  and 
soon  he  was  eating  cake  and  drinking  mineral  water 
while  the  genial  General  smiled  upon  him  and  asked 
questions. 

Was  I  really  going  that  night  to  the  trenches? 
Wouldn't  I  accept  such  a  shake-down  as  it  was  in 


ADVENTURES  BY  MOONLIGHT         155 

his  power  to  offer?  In  a  word  (and  he  summed 
up  the  matter  with  twinkling  eyes),  which  did  I 
prefer — discomfort  or  comfort? 

My  decision  was  in  favour  of  adhering  to  the 
programme  laid  down  for  me;  and  therefore,  after 
inspecting  and  handling  a  piece  of  shrapnel  which, 
it  seemed,  had  that  afternoon  struck  the  General's 
heel,  I  withdrew  in  the  company  of  a  friendly  young 
subaltern  who  was  instructed  to  see  to  my  going 
forth — our  preparations  including  the  withdrawal 
from  my  luggage  of  heavy  articles  that  could  ad- 
vantageously be  left  behind,  and  the  temporary  sub- 
stitution for  my  gum  boots  of  a  pair  of  military 
waders. 

Nor  was  it  long  before  the  pampered  adventurer 
was  setting  forth  once  more  into  the  chill  grey  mist, 
accompanied  by  two  lads  who,  between  them,  made 
light  of  his  reduced  impedimenta. 

There  was  an  educated  ring  in  their  quiet  voices 
as  they  alertly  responded  to  my  remarks.  They 
were  such  boys  as  the  outbreak  of  war  would  no 
doubt  have  found  newly  emerged  from  school — per- 
haps not  yet  embarked  on  commercial  or  profes- 
sional life ;  in  a  word,  middle-class  boys  in  the  golden, 
lawn-tennis  phase  of  existence.  And  there  they  were, 
out  in  that  chill  Flanders'  mist — guarding  the  Brit- 
ish Empire  and  human  liberty;  and  guarding  them 
in  a  spirit  which,  because  typical  of  our  lads  at  the 
front,  I  fain  would  define. 

They  spoke  with  a  complacency  rendered  the  more 
acceptable  because  of  an  impersonal  note  in  the 
things  they  said.  I  had  been  careful  to  tell  them 
who  I  was,  so  that  there  might  be  no  risk,  in  the 


156  SOULS  IN  KHAKI 

uncertain  light,  of  their  mistaking  me  for  a  per- 
sonage. And  certainly  they  spoke  without  con- 
straint, as  also  without  a  mental  pose  of  any  sort, 
whether  in  the  direction  of  emphasising,  belittling, 
or  burlesquing  the  dangers  amid  which  they  lived. 
Their  manner  was  free  from  the  slightest  sugges- 
tion of  impatience,  frivolity,  or  fear.  It  was  calm, 
courteous,  sympathetic,  and  gentle. 

I  said  how  sorry  I  was  to  be  taking  them  out 
into  the  open,  when  but  for  me  they  would  doubt- 
less have  been  enjoying  comfortable  accommoda- 
tion under  some  sort  of  cover.  There  was  almost 
a  filial  note  in  the  assurances  they  made  haste  to 
give  me;  namely,  that  it  did  not  matter  at  all, 
and  that,  in  fact,  they  were  only  too  pleased  to  be 
of  service. 

"Excuse  me,"  I  interrupted,  "but  was  that  a  bul- 
let that  just  went  by?"  For  it  was  early  in  the 
year  for  cockchafers,  and  I  knew  of  no  other  beetle 
likely  to  be  on  the  wing  at  that  hour. 

"Yes,"  replied  the  lad  who  was  carrying  my 
gladstone  bag.  "That  one,"  he  added,  in  a  spirit 
of  mild  criticism,  "was  flying  rather  high,  I  think" ; 
and  for  some  moments  we  advanced  in  silence. 

It  seemed  strange  to  be  taking  that  pensive  walk 
through  opaque  moonlight  penetrated  by  little 
pieces  of  lead;  still  stranger  to  realise  that  this 
was  war — not  a  written-up  picture  of  war,  but  the 
reality. 

Only  for  a  few  yards  did  our  vision  have  a  clear 
range;  and  every  now  and  then  there  came  into 
view,  as  we  advanced,  a  figure  or  group  of  figures 
in  khaki,  mostly  standing,  sometimes  sitting,  and 


ADVENTURES  BY  MOONLIGHT         157 

in  a  few  cases  lying  on  the  ground.  And  those 
other  lads,  as  I  noted  when  they  spoke  with  my 
companions,  also  were  serious  and  supremely  tran- 
quil. 

For  this  is  the  fact  I  want  to  report:  those  men 
and  lads,  like  others  I  had  met  at  the  Front,  were 
obviously  sustained  by  a  grace  that  issued  from  the 
unerring  working  of  Divine  Justice.  They  had  sur- 
rendered all  the  joys  of  life,  and  stood  prepared 
to  surrender  life  itself,  on  the  altar  of  liberty;  and 
could  it  be  otherwise  than  that  they  should  reach 
a  sure  consolation?  Moreover,  our  human  percep- 
tion gropes  its  way  to  a  recognition  of  this  guiding 
law  of  the  universe:  that  joy  has  its  roots  in  sacri- 
fice, and  that  the  gain  is  ever  in  proportion  to  the 
giving. 

The  boy  carrying  my  bag  spoke  without  embar- 
rassment of  God's  love,  and  the  boy  carrying  my 
boots  said  it  was  nice  to  know  that  death  did  not 
matter. 

Such,  I  feel  sure,  was  the  subject  nearest  their 
hearts.  They  were  living  in  a  sort  of  golden  twi- 
light between  time  and  eternity.  For  our  lads  at 
the  Front  (it  was  growing  more  and  more  clear) 
death  had  the  immediate  practical  importance  which 
belongs  to  the  next  thing  that  is  going  to  happen. 

My  thoughts  were  still  dwelling  on  our  wonder- 
fully upheld  soldiers  when  we  found  ourselves  pro- 
ceeding in  single  file  along  duck  boards,  which  ran 
through  a  region  that  was  a-swim  with  khaki-col- 
oured mud.  A  downcast  gaze  soon  became  necessary 
to  ensure  that  one  did  not  step  or  slip  off  the  nar- 
row and  slimy  pathway. 


158  SOULS  IN  KHAKI 

"Be  careful  here,  sir,"  said  the  leading  lad,  in- 
dicating some  tilted  boarding,  where  an  unprepared 
footstep  might  have  involved  one's  downfall. 

I  trod  cautiously  and  was  safely  past  the  peril 
when  whizz !  went  a  bullet  through  the  wet  air — and 
whizz !  went  another  one. 

"Those,  I  think,  were  some  way  to  our  left,"  the 
rear  lad  quietly  explained. 

Instead  of  returning  an  appropriate  reply,  I  ut- 
tered a  muffled  ejaculation  as  a  large  lump  of  mud 
to  our  right  went  scampering  off  into  the  mist — 
for  that  was  the  uncanny  impression  received  by 
my  imagination. 

"Rather  a  sleepy  old  rat,  that,"  lightly  remarked 
my  leader.  "There  are  any  number  about  here." 

It  was  even  so.  During  the  next  few  minutes 
I  saw  three  more  of  those  khaki-coloured  creatures. 
One  nearly  brushed  against  my  boots  as  he  blun- 
dered across  my  path.  How  unnaturally  tame  a  rat 
must  be  to  run  between  two  human  beings  walk- 
ing close  together!  Fortunately,  I  conquered  an 
impulse  to  yell. 

Presently  we  heard  footsteps  approaching  along 
the  duck  boards,  and  next  minute  were  confronting 
the  foremost  of  a  party  of  Tommies  newly  emerged 
from  the  trenches.  In  that  dim  light  they  almost 
suggested  Arctic  explorers,  so  heavily  were  they  en- 
cased in  equipment  and  mucL 

To  allow  them  passage,  we  had  to  step  clear  of 
the  duck  boards,  and  stand  as  best  we  could  on  such 
little  hillocks  of  partial  solidity  as  occurred  in  the 
morass.  To  preserve  my  balance,  I  clutched  once 
or  twice  at  a  passing  arm  or  shoulder;  but  so  tired 


ADVENTURES  BY  MOONLIGHT         159 

and  sleepy  were  the  dear  fellows  that  they  said 
nothing,  and  did  not  even  turn  their  heads.  They 
just  plodded  along,  mechanically  and  in  silence. 

The  pop-pop-pop  of  the  rifles  sounded  more  and 
more  distinct. 

"We  never  spend  too  much  time  at  this  part/' 
soon  our  leader  remarked,  as  he  set  an  example  of 
accelerated  speed. 

"What  are  those  lights  ?"  I  asked  when,  we  having 
resumed  our  former  pace,  I  looked  up  and  thought 
I  saw,  on  ahead  to  our  left,  some  luminous  patches 
faintly  discernible  in  the  mist. 

"There  aren't  any  lights/*  replied  the  foremost 
lad,  after  directing,  as  it  seemed  to  me,  the  most 
cursory  glance  in  the  indicated  direction.  And  he 
went  on  to  speak  about  something  else. 

"Excuse  me,"  I  persisted,  "but  I  can  distinctly 
see  shimmering  lights." 

"No,  sir,"  was  the  lad's  prompt  and  almost 
peremptory  reply;  and  the  other  lad  broke  in  with 
the  remark :  "We  are  not  far  from  the  lines  now." 

Obstinately  staring  into  obscurity,  I  soon  knew  the 
pathetic  explanation  of  an  optical  illusion.  We  were 
passing  a  place  of  burial  for  those  killed  outright 
in  the  firing  line,  and  the  rows  of  neat  crosses, 
painted  white,  had  afforded  me  a  vision  of  re- 
fracted moonlight. 

A  hissing  bullet  emphasised  the  situation,  which 
linked  up  the  living  lads  beside  me  with  those  other 
lads  whose  memorials  lay  yonder;  and  as  I  thought 
of  the  supreme  manifestation  of  self-surrender,  now 
revealed  in  a  double  aspect,  the  light  on  those  crosses 
seemed  like  glimpses  of  glory. 


160  SOULS  IN  KHAKI 

But  a  new  turn  was  given  to  my  thoughts  when 
for  the  second  time  we  were  brought  to  a  stand- 
still by  an  imperative  "Who  goes  there?"  And  let 
me  say  that  those  challenges  were  by  far  the  most 
dramatic  incidents  of  our  walk.  In  each  case  a  cer- 
tain stern  sincerity  in  the  sentry's  manner  contrasted 
sharply  with  the  formal  character  of  the  phrase  he 
uttered.  Nay,  the  inflection  of  his  voice  helped  me 
to  realise  that,  under  cover  of  the  mist,  a  spy  or 
trespassing  German  might  be  about,  and  that  the 
sentry  must  needs  act  promptly  if  a  questionable 
visitor  hove  into  view.  Fortunately,  my  compan- 
ions knew  what  answer  to  give,  and  lost  no  time  in 
giving  it. 

On  speedily  becoming  satisfied  that  they  were 
good  men  and  true,  each  sentry  included  me  within 
the  scope  of  his  confidence — this  being,  by  the  way, 
an  ill  preparation  for  the  experience,  which  befell 
me  later  in  the  evening,  of  finding  myself  an  ob- 
ject of  acute  suspicion  and  apprehension. 

But  first  I  must  mention  that  we  came  to  a  ter- 
race of  dug-outs,  at  one  of  which  (faced  with  a 
door  and  window  of  immaculate  joinery)  we  pre- 
sented ourselves;  whereupon  the  lads  withdrew,  and 
I  was  received  by  a  group  of  officers,  who  almost 
looked  as  though  they  had  been  sitting  up  for  me 
and  would  rather  have  been  in  bed. 

No  time  was  lost  in  debating  whether  I  should 
go  forthwith  into  the  trenches  and  spend  the  night 
there  (an  arrangement  that  would  allow  of  a  visit 
to  certain  mine  craters  which,  because  they  offered 
no  cover,  could  not  be  inspected  by  day)  ;  or  whether 
I  would  get  a  proper  night's  sleep,  and  next  day 


ADVENTURES  BY  MOONLIGHT         161 

go  out  with  an  officer  whose  duties  would  take  him 
to  the  "International"  and  other  recently  captured 
trenches.  I  agreed  to  the  latter  plan,  which  was 
the  one  recommended  by  my  hosts,  who  next  sug- 
gested that,  as  it  was  past  eleven,  I  might  be  will- 
ing, after  partaking  of  a  little  refreshment,  to  turn 
in  for  the  night. 

But  before  I  had  made  much  progress  with  the 
cake  and  oranges,  it  chanced  that  the  regimental 
doctor  arrived,  and  soon  let  fall  the  tidings  that 
two  of  their  men  had  just  been  shot.  Whereupon 
I  sought  and  obtained  permission  to  go  and  study 
the  procedure  of  their  treatment,  a  private  being 
told  off  to  act  as  my  guide.  Nor  had  three  minutes 
elapsed  before  he  and  I  were  entering  a  neighbour- 
ing dug-out  which,  constructed  as  though  to  resist 
earthquakes,  was  in  use  as  the  casualty  station — 
place  of  first-aid  to  the  wounded. 

Members  of  the  staff  obligingly  explained,  and 
to  a  certain  extent  displayed,  the  resources  of  that 
little  subterranean  surgery,  which  happened  at  the 
moment  to  be  free  of  patients,  the  last  two  hav- 
ing, it  seemed,  only  just  departed  for  the  field  hos- 
pital. 

Towards  that  establishment,  accordingly,  we  our- 
selves presently  set  out,  the  route  proving  to  in- 
volve a  return  journey  along  the  duck  boards,  and 
so  reintroducing  me  to  scurrying  rats,  slippery  foot- 
steps, flying  bullets,  and  stern  sentries. 

Early  we  came  upon  a  party  of  some  half-dozen 
soldiers  resting  on  a  ledge  of  raised  ground;  and, 
a  gleam  of  white  bandages  arresting  my  companion's 


SOULS  IN  KHAKI 

attention,  he  inquired  of  those  comrades  if  we  were 
going  right  for  the  field  hospital. 

"Yes — are  you  wounded?"  came  the  anxious  re- 
ply of  R.A.M.C.  men  who  were  in  charge  of  our 
two  casualties. 

Instead  of  keeping  pace  with  them,  we  pushed 
on  to  anticipate  their  arrival  at  the  hospital. 

Coming  at  last  to  the  solid-looking  ruin  that 
proved  to  be  our  destination,  we  found  our  way 
into  a  brilliantly  lighted  chamber  largely  occupied 
by  apparatus  of  the  healing  art  and  by  assistants  of 
the  surgeon,  who  himself  was  not  present.  My  es- 
cort uttered  some  brief  explanation  to  a  Corporal, 
who  promptly  disappeared  into  an  inner  apartment, 
whence  at  once  issued  the  following  exclamatory 
remarks,  uttered  as  by  a  highly-strung  man  roused 
from  a  brief  sleep  snatched  amid  incessant  toil: 

"What!  Who  is  it?  A  civilianl  But  civilians 
don't  get  up  here.  What  does  he  look  like?  Who 
does  he  say  he  is?  Does  he  show  any  papers? 
Where  is  he?"  And  a  lithe  figure,  full  of  nervous 
energy,  almost  sprang  into  the  surgery. 

Directing  only  the  briefest  glance  at  me,  the  new- 
comer turned  to  my  escort  for  information  as  to 
where,  how,  why,  and  when  I  first  got  into  his  com- 
pany; that  phlegmatic  young  gentleman  finding  him- 
self subjected  to  a  somewhat  bewildering  bombard- 
ment of  questions. 

Finally,  the  surgeon,  completely  reassured,  turned, 
and  not  only  welcomed  me  with  a  charming  courtesy, 
but  invited  me  to  await  the  next  cases,  and  see  him 
dress  their  wounds. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

IN  THE   TRENCHES 

Two  typical  casualties — Invalids  bashfully  grinning — Their  bullet 
wounds — Comments  of  the  kindly  surgeon — What  became  of 
the  beef-tea — My  night  in  a  dug-out — Mistaken  for  the  Colonel 
— A  terrifying  tail — Broken  slumbers — An  appetising  break- 
fast— Setting  forth  with  the  Captain — War  landscape — Wading 
through  the  trenches — Our  men  under  fire — The  dead  lad — 
Bodies  in  the  parapet — A  peep  at  the  shattered  "International" 
— Thirty  yards  from  the  foe. 

STANDING  beside  the  surgeon,  I  soon  was  gazing  at 
the  two  stricken  soldiers  who,  aided  by  strong  sup- 
porting arms,  arrived  on  foot. 

They  did  not  look  like  casualties,  except  that  one 
man  showed  a  helpless  left  arm,  from  which  the 
sleeve  of  his  tunic  had  been  cut  away,  and  that 
the  other  man  had  a  bandage  about  his  head.  For 
the  rest,  each  healthy  pink  face  wore  a  placid,  slightly 
apologetic,  and  distinctly  self-conscious  expression. 

"Well,  now/'  murmured  the  sympathetic  surgeon, 
when  the  man  with  an  injured  arm  was  seated  un- 
der a  brilliant  light,  "a  bullet  wound,  I  suppose?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  replied  the  grinning  invalid;  and  a 
minute  later  the  surgeon's  keen  scissors  had  removed 
the  slit  shirt  sleeve  and  he  had  withdrawn  the  first 
dressings.  Thus  were  revealed  two  wounds  which, 
although  less  than  half  an  hour  had  elapsed  since 

163 


164  SOULS  IN  KHAKI 

they  were  inflicted,  had  ceased  to  bleed,  showed  no 
inflammation,  and  were,  in  fact,  already  well  on  the 
way  to  heal.  The  bullet,  entering  at  the  vaccinator's 
favourite  muscle,  had  emerged  through  the  shoul- 
der, and  then  no  doubt  continued  on  its  journey — 
perhaps  as  one  of  those  that  went  whizzing  by  as 
I  walked  along  the  slippery  duck  boards. 

Almost  before  the  surgeon  could  say  what  he 
wanted,  assistants  were  at  his  elbow  with  lotions, 
lint,  and  other  wholesome-smelling  means  of  reduc- 
ing pain  and  promoting  a  speedy  recovery;  so  that 
soon  the  wounds  were  re-dressed  and  the  arm  re- 
swathed.  The  patient,  who  all  this  time  had  com- 
tinued  to  look  pleased  in  a  self-depreciatory  sort  of 
way,  was  about  to  rise;  but  Science  had  not  quite 
done  with  him  yet.  An  area  of  flesh  had  to  be  bared 
for  the  anti-tetanus  injection. 

"Just  a  little  pin-prick,"  remarked  the  persuasive 
surgeon,  as  he  inserted  his  needle.  Then  at  last 
the  patient  winced,  though  only  momentarily;  and 
in  another  minute  he  was  applying  himself  with 
honest  zest  to  a  bowl  of  hot  beef-tea. 

Meanwhile  the  second  invalid  had  come  under 
the  strong  light. 

"What!  another  bullet  wound!"  exclaimed  the 
surgeon,  in  that  cheerful  tone  of  sympathy  which 
was  not  without  its  emollient  and  curative  value. 

"Aye,"  replied  the  patient,  his  voice  having  the 
same  North  Country  burr  as  the  other  man's,  and 
his  face  wearing  much  the  same  sort  of  bashful 
grin. 

"Some  people,"  remarked  the  surgeon,  after  he 


IN  THE  TRENCHES  165 

had  withdrawn  the  first  dressings,  "are  pretty  lucky, 
don't  you  think?" 

"Aye,"  agreed  the  patient,  still  grinning. 

Adroit  sponging  had  laid  bare  a  wound  some  two 
inches  long,  and  showing  about  half  an  inch  of  scalp 
grooved  out  at  the  deepest  part. 

"Your  old  head,"  continued  the  surgeon,  as  he 
applied  soothing  fluids  with  a  touch  of  infinite  del- 
icacy, "has  had  a  knock  before  to-day?" 

Which  remark  received  the  immediate  confirma- 
tion: 

"Aye — a  loomp  o'  coal.    I'm  a  miner." 

Then  the  surgeon  asked  for  a  razor  and  (after 
slyly  explaining  to  me  that  he  had  to  be  a  barber 
as  well  as  a  policeman)  set  about  shaving  his  pa- 
tient's head  in  the  region  of  the  wound.  When  the 
blade,  wielded  so  expertly,  passed  along  an  edge  of 
the  cranium  cavity,  I  glanced  at  the  miner's  profile, 
which  remained  a  picture  of  good-tempered  forti- 
tude. 

With  merely  a  passing  squirm  at  the  hypodermic 
injection,  he  reached  the  stage  of  receiving  his  basin 
of  beef-tea;  then,  the  pain  and  strain  overcoming 
him  at  last,  he  put  down  the  untasted  food  and  had 
to  be  conducted  to  sleeping  quarters. 

Nor  was  it  long  before,  having  thanked  the  kindly 
surgeon,  I  departed  with  my  "phlegmatic  guide,  who 
had,  meanwhile,  with  great  presence  of  mind,  and 
acting  entirely  on  his  own  initiative,  consumed  the 
derelict  basin  of  beef-tea. 

The  outside  world  remained  what  it  had  been — 
that  is  to  say,  cloudy  moonlight  illumined  a  damp 
mist,  which  prevented  any  one  seeing  any  one  else 


166  SOULS  IN  KHAKI 

outside  a  radius  of  some  half-dozen  yards;  and, 
walking  along  slimy  duck  boards,  we  had  once  more 
to  run  the  gauntlet  of  sentries,  rats,  and  flying  bul- 
lets. 

It  was  past  midnight,  but  the  war  was  still  going 
on,  even  though — whether  or  no  because  of  the  late- 
ness of  the  hour  I  cannot  say — distant  shelling  had 
ceased,  and  machine-guns  were  silent,  leaving  the 
everlasting  staccato  of  rifle  fire  in  undisputed  pos- 
session of  the  field  of  sound. 

On  returning  to  the  dug-out,  I  found  two  of  the 
officers  still  sitting  up  for  me;  and  they  were  soon 
addressing  themselves  to  the  question  of  how  my 
comfort  could  best  be  secured.  It  seemed  that  their 
apartment  (which  served  as  the  officers'  mess-room) 
had  been  allocated  to  my  exclusive  use  as  a  sleeping 
chamber.  A  blanket  already  lay  along  a  seat  built 
out  from  the  wall  below  the  window ;  and  one  of  the 
officers,  as  an  old  campaigner,  recommended  the  fol- 
lowing procedure  as  likely  to  ensure  a  good  night's 
rest:  that,  before  retiring,  I  should  take  off  my  boots, 
and  that  I  should  not  only  remain  in  all  my  clothes, 
but  put  on,  over  my  own  overcoat,  his  still  warmer 
one,  the  loan  of  which  he  accordingly  pressed  upon 
me. 

Then,  bidding  me  make  free  with  what  was  left 
on  the  table,  they  withdrew,  and  their  visitor  was 
left  alone,  with  full  opportunity  to  take  stock  of 
his  surroundings. 

My  imagination  had  often  made  guesses  as  to 
what  it  would  feel  like  to  spend  the  night  in  a  dug- 
out; but  the  anticipation  was  now  seen  to  have  had 
little  in  common  with  the  reality.  Instead  of  hav- 


IN  THE  TRENCHES  167 

ing  to  put  up  with  conditions  suggesting  the  com- 
bined experiences  of  a  miner  and  a  rabbit,  I  found 
myself  in  a  well-proportioned  and  well-lighted  apart- 
ment which,  with  its  art  shade  of  canvas  wall  hang- 
ings and  its  simple  oak  furniture,  had  quite  a  Totten- 
ham Court  Road  air  about  it.  The  coal  stove  gave 
out  welcome  warmth,  and,  drawing  a  chair  to  the 
table,  the  civilian  applied  himself  to  cake,  fruit, 
and  mineral  water  with  a  keen  appreciation  of  the 
most  luxurious  quarters  that  he  had  occupied  since 
leaving  the  base. 

Having  presently  extinguished  the  lamp  and  lit 
a  couple  of  candles,  I  was  about  to  adopt  a  recum- 
bent position  when  two  knocks  came  at  the  door; 
and  the  next  minute,  peering  out  into  the  mist,  I 
learnt  from  a  pleasant-spoken  private  that  his  bat- 
talion had  just  arrived,  and  that,  if  quite  agreeable, 
his  O.C.  would  like  to  drop  in  and  have  a  chat  with 
me.  Not  for  long,  however,  was  I  able  to  enter- 
tain an  exaggerated  view  of  my  own  importance ;  for 
the  lad,  clearly  surprised  at  my  surprise,  added  that 
he  presumed  I  was  the  Colonel. 

Having  undeceived  that  hasty  reasoner,  I  pointed 
out,  for  what  my  opinion  might  be  worth,  that  it 
was  a  little  late  to  be  paying  calls,  and  that  his  O.C. 
would  be  well  advised,  as  it  seemed  to  me,  if  he 
deferred  his  visit  till  the  morning. 

Left  alone  once  more,  I  was  soon  lying  snugly  in 
my  cocoon  of  overcoats,  a  book  in  my  hand,  and 
the  candles  by  my  side.  But  when  one  is  feeling 
supremely  peaceful,  thinking  is  more  congenial  than 
reading.  I  tried  to  realise  that  fortune  had  at  last 
smiled  upon  my  dreams,  and  that  there  I  was  in 


168  SOULS  IN  KHAKI 

the  firing  line  of  the  greatest  war  the  world  had 
ever  known.  But  one  had  no  evidence  on  the  sub- 
ject except  (for  I  listened  carefully)  the  incessant 
pop-pop  of  rifle  fire  in  the  very  back  garden,  as  it 
seemed. 

Yet  stay — what  was  that  other  sound?  Alas! 
an  unmistakable  scratching  behind  the  canvas  hang- 
ings. There  remained  a  vivid  memory  of  those 
large,  bold  rats  seen  earlier  in  the  night,  and  my 
cranium  was  visited  by  a  cold  sensation. 

Blowing  out  the  lights,  I  sought  oblivion  in  sleep ; 
only,  however,  to  start  up  a  little  later  on  hearing 
a  squeak  and  a  scuffle  within  a  few  inches  of  my 
head.  I  lit  a  candle  and  sat  watching  an  aperture 
where,  in  the  angle  of  the  wall,  one  stretch  of  can- 
vas failed  to  meet  another  stretch  of  canvas.  Pres- 
ently my  staring  eyes  caught  the  wiggle  of  an  un- 
mistakable tail.  Then  in  dismay  I  beheld  receptacles 
for  food  on  the  window  sill.  My  face  had  been 
in  a  direct  line  between  the  biscuit  box  and  the  place 
where  that  tail  had  appeared. 

It  was  enough.  No  more  window  seat  for  me. 
And,  unfortunately,  the  room  did  not  offer  an  al- 
ternative couch.  At  last,  however,  with  my  head 
on  a  box  beside  the  stove,  and  my  body  stretched 
across  two  chairs,  I  tried  again.  But  a  hard  bed  is 
painful,  and  a  hard  bed  on  which  one  has  no  room 
to  turn  is  purgatory. 

Soon  after  blowing  out  the  light  I  realised  that 
rats  would  be  likely  to  come  down  the  chimney. 
Then  it  occurred  to  me  that  they  would  be  sure 
to  want  to  eat  the  candles,  which  were  lying  near 
my  face.  A  Tommy  had  recently  told  me  of  a 


IN  THE  TRENCHES  169 

friend  whose  lip  was  bitten  by  a  rat.  Striking  an- 
other light,  I  got  out  my  mackintosh  cape  and 
wrapped  up  my  head  in  that. 

Shortly  after  dawn  a  little  sleep  came;  but  the 
lodger  was  not  feeling  very  refreshed  when  an  or- 
derly entered  to  tidy  up  the  place  and  lay  the  cloth 
for  breakfast. 

"No,  sir,"  he  was  soon  remarking,  "they  weren't 
rats.  What  you  heard  was  mice.  I've  noticed  'em 
myself  when  I've  slept  here." 

Alas  and  alack!     For  I  am  not  afraid  of  mice. 

However,  it  was  too  late  to  mend  my  broken 
night;  nor  did  time  serve  for  vain  regrets.  My  com- 
panions of  the  previous  night  were  soon  arriving. 

For  breakfast  we  had  porridge,  eggs  and  bacon, 
coffee,  strawberry  jam,  a  clean  tablecloth,  and  good 
appetites;  and  during  the  meal  I  became  acquainted 
with  a  cavalry  Captain,  and  wearer  of  the  D.S.O., 
who,  it  seemed,  was  going  to  take  me  into  the 
trenches. 

Having  paraded  a  working  party  (equipped  with 
various  means  of  making  and  repairing  trenches), 
the  Captain  dispatched  them  by  one  route  and  him- 
self made  ready  to  go  forth,  with  a  Lieutenant  and 
myself,  by  another;  our  departure  being  somewhat 
delayed  by  the  task,  in  which  several  friendly  hands 
co-operated,  of  establishing  me  in  my  borrowed  mili- 
tary waders — boots  having  uppers  reaching  to  one's 
waist. 

After  following  a  path  cut  into  the  side  of  a  hill, 
we  crossed  an  area  of  what  had  no  doubt  once 
been  agricultural  land,  though  whether  pasture, 
arable,  or  orchard,  could  not  readily  be  divined.  It 


170  SOULS  IN  KHAKI 

was  a  typical  bit  of  war  landscape;  and  war  land- 
scape is  a  phenomenon  that  cannot  be  adequately 
imagined  by  a  person  who  has  not  seen  it.  Other 
landscapes  reveal  Nature  in  beautiful  moods, 
whether  placid  or  stern.  The  war  landscape  sug- 
gests Nature  in  an  ugly,  distraught  mood.  Picture 
a  derelict  brickfield  that  has  been  subjected  to  earth- 
quakes, and  on  which  are  trees  that  have  been  struck 
by  lightning,  and  you  will  have  an  idea  of  the  ground 
we  were  crossing.  They  told  me  the  pretty  name 
by  which  it  was  called;  but  whether  the  name  echoed 
past  charms,  or  had  been  conferred  in  irony,  I  did 
not  gather. 

My  next  experience  was  more  thrilling  than  a 
vision  of  blasted  scenery.  Coming  upon  a  big 
groove,  gutter,  or  channel  cut  in  the  earth,  the 
Captain  entered  therein,  and  we  followed;  a  dozen 
paces  bringing  us  to  tolerably  uniform  dimensions 
in  the  excavation — ample  shoulder  room,  with  a 
depth  of  about  five  feet. 

And  so  I  found  myself  at  last  in  the  trenches — 
the  trenches,  which,  more  primitive  than  the  aver- 
age contrivances  of  untutored  savages,  have  become 
the  most  important  factor  in  our  advanced  modern 
world,  and  the  point  at  which  human  fears  and 
hopes  are  mainly  focussed. 

I  have  since  traversed  several  different  forms  of 
trenches,  some  of  scientific  construction  and  stylish 
finish.  Owing  to  an  unfavourable  combination  of 
meteorological,  military,  and  geological  conditions, 
that  particular  trench  was  (as  I  was  afterwards  to 
realise)  a  pretty  poor  specimen.  It  suggested — 
nay,  it  duplicated — one  of  the  deep,  broad  drains 


IN  THE  TRENCHES  171 

dug  across  marshy  land.  It  was  certainly  acting  as 
a  drain,  in  a  sluggish  sort  of  way.  While  not  con- 
taining enough  water  to  meet  the  requirements  of 
a  swimmer  or  an  angler,  it  contained  too  much  to 
admit  of  ordinary  progress  even  by  persons  having 
their  legs  wholly  encased  in  india-rubber. 

It  would  not  have  mattered  if  the  water  had 
been  only  some  two  or  three  feet  deep,  or  on  a 
hard  bottom.  Sometimes  the  bottom  was  soft  mud, 
which,  having  received  one's  boots,  endeavoured  to 
retain  them  by  the  power  of  suction.  Even  more 
to  be  dreaded  were  certain  holes  of  which  the  Cap- 
tain warned  the  Lieutenant  and  the  Lieutenant 
warned  me;  the  Captain's  topographical  knowledge, 
which  was  obviously  comprehensive  and  intimate, 
being  subject  to  correction  or  amplification  by  sol- 
diers on  duty  along  our  route. 

Of  those  soldiers  my  mind  received  two  impres- 
sions. One  was  of  their  helpfulness,  as  illustrated 
by  a  watchful  readiness,  where  necessary,  to  direct 
our  footsteps  into  a  path  of  safety.  'The  other  im- 
pression was  of  their  unobtrusiveness.  Sons  of  cob- 
blers and  sons  of  clergymen;  merchants,  students, 
milkmen;  men  from  the  universities  and  lads  from 
the  slums — there  they  were,  all  clumsily  enveloped 
in  khaki,  all  bedabbled  with  clay,  and  all  apparently 
in  a  blissful  state  of  self-effacement.  They  were 
linked  together  by  a  common  bond  of  unqualified 
altruism,  and,  incidentally,  they  were  affording  a 
triumphant  vindication  of  the  essential  brotherhood 
of  man. 

Presently  it  became  a  feature  of  our  walk  that 
the  Captain  should  every  now  and  then  remark, 


172  SOULS  IN  KHAKI 

"Better  bend  a  bit  here,  if  you  please";  and  his 
six  feet  or  so  of  magnificent  manhood  set  an  example 
of  spinal  curvature.  The  farther  we  went,  the  more 
occasion  was  there  for  stooping,  we  having  come 
into  a  region  where,  some  eight  days  before,  a 
protracted  tornado  of  exploding  shells  had  done 
more  mischief  than  there  had  since  been  time  thor- 
oughly to  repair. 

What  with  the  inconvenience  of  floundering  about 
in  muddy  water,  and  the  strain  on  the  small  of  one's 
back,  the  situation  might,  under  ordinary  circum- 
stances, have  grown  irksome.  But  physical  discom- 
fort merely  assisted  a  realisation  of  one's  privilege 
in  being  there  to  share,  for  a  few  hours,  perils  and 
hardships  which,  often  in  far  sterner  degrees,  our 
glorious  lads  face  so  cheerfully  for  months  to- 
gether. 

Here  and  there  a  ton  or  so  of  clay  had  been 
scooped  out  of  the  side,  above  the  water  level,  and 
the  recess  thus  formed,  with  or  without  a  sack  hung 
over  the  entrance,  made  an  acceptable  sleeping  cham- 
ber. Often,  indeed,  protruding  legs  occurred  as 
mild  obstructions  across  our  path. 

In  a  stretch  of  trench  where,  because  of  a  rising 
gradient,  the  bottom  was  merely  muddy,  I  came 
across  a  lad  who,  with  his  back  leaning  against  one 
side  and  his  feet  against  the  other,  had  succeeded 
in  going  to  sleep  in  an  upright  position.  The  Cap- 
tain set  a  fine  example  by  his  care  in  getting  by 
without  disturbing  that  slumberer.  The  adaptable 
lad  seemed,  judging  by  the  placid  face  that  hung 
over  his  chest,  to  be  having  the  happy  dreams  he 
doubtless  deserved. 


IN  THE  TRENCHES 

From  this  point  the  ground  became  dry  under 
foot,  but  so  battered  and  irregular  were  the  brows 
of  the  trench  that  a  stooping  attitude  had  to  be 
maintained.  And  soon  we  were  encouraged  in  our 
caution  by  a  sight  full  of  beautiful  pathos.  Wrapped 
in  a  blanket,  and  placed  ready  for  removal  on  a 
stretcher,  lay  the  body  of  a  lad  who,  a  short  half 
hour  before,  had  stood  quietly  and  contentedly  at 
the  post  of  duty  with  those  other  quiet  and  con- 
tented lads,  his  friends  and  comrades,  whom  we 
found  on  the  spot. 

I  wondered  if  the  father  and  mother  in  an  Eng- 
lish suburban  villa — for  imagination  pictured  the 
matter  thus — could  have  desired  for  their  darling 
boy  a  more  triumphant  passing  into  his  Home  in 
the  Beyond.  For  the  lad  who  dies  in  the  trenches 
has  lived  in  an  atmosphere  of  penitence,  goodness, 
and  preparation,  and  has  the  supreme  act  of  will- 
ing self-surrender  standing  to  his  credit. 

Shooting  having  been  indicated,  I  ought  perhaps 
to  mention  that  there  was  the  crackle  of  continuous 
rifle  fire  in  the  foreground,  so  to  speak,  of  our 
hearing,  and  the  intermittent  booming  of  shell  fire 
in  the  background,  with  grenade  explosions  occur- 
ring every  now  and  then  in  the  middle  distance. 

"And  now,"  the  Captain  was  presently  saying, 
"you  must  be  prepared  for  rather  a  gruesome  sight." 

But  a  burial  party  had  been  busy  since,  on  the 
previous  afternoon,  he  last  visited  that  spot;  and 
no  piteous  relics  of  the  dislodged  enemy  were  to 
be  seen.  But  we  came  to  where  a  Sergeant,  indi- 
cating an  embankment  of  loose  earth,  said: 


174  SOULS  IN  KHAKI 

"There  are  three  Germans  in  there,  sir.  What 
shall  we  do  with  them?'* 

"Add  more  earth,"  directed  the  Captain,  "and 
put  up  a  temporary  cross.  That  is  all  we  can  do 
at  present." 

There  had  been  much  curving  and  turning  in 
our  course,  and  presently  we  came  to  a  trench 
( running  at  right  angles  to  the  one  we  were  travers- 
ing) of  which  the  parapets  were  reduced  to  a  shape- 
less disorder  of  crumpled  clay.  That  trench  would 
have  afforded  cover  to  a  man  only  if  he  had  crawled 
on  his  hands  and  knees — which,  with  the  bottom  cov- 
ered with  several  inches  of  water,  would  not  have 
been  an  agreeable  performance. 

"That,"  explained  the  Captain,  "is  the  so-called 
international'  trench  which  was  captured  last 
week.  It  is  not  very  much  used  at  present  during 
daylight." 

We  cautiously  advanced  still  farther  along  re- 
cently captured  trenches  until,  sitting  down  on  a 
piece  of  timber,  and  bidding  me  do  likewise,  the 
Captain  pointed  to  a  ridge  of  clay  which  obstructed 
our  view,  and  said: 

"That  is  all  there  is  between  us  and  the  Germans, 
who  are  not  more  than  thirty  yards  away." 


CHAPTER  XIV 
NO-MAN'S-LAND 

The  soothing  front  line — Peeping  over  the  parapet — Dead  earth- 
Periscope  pictures — Significant  streaks  of  shadow — Tins  and 
tatters — Military  scavengers — Sunshine  and  a  skylark — Tom- 
my's comforters — What  the  birds  were  saying — German  trench- 
ing tools — Other  interesting  relics — Waterproof  fire-lighters — 
Watching  an  aerial  battle — The  stricken  plane — Back  in  the 
open — Barred  by  falling  shells — The  "burst"  described — An 
inconvenient  alternative. 

THE  Captain  and  I  had  the  place  to  ourselves,  and 
a  more  peaceful  spot  for  a  chat  no  one  could  desire. 
Nor  is  it  easy  to  see  why  (unless  through  the  opera- 
tion of  some  subtle  law  of  paradox)  one  should  have 
been  visited,  there  of  all  places  in  the  world,  by  a 
sense  of  almost  sedative  tranquillity.  Less  than  a 
stone's  throw  away,  with  only  a  few  barrow-loads 
of  clay  as  an  intervening  shield,  was  the  mighty 
Prussian  military  machine,  which  must  be  credited, 
no  doubt,  with  an  earnest  abstract  desire  to  kill, 
not  only  my  military  associate,  but  also  my  civilian, 
self.  On  the  other  hand,  there  was  I  (very  likely 
the  Captain  was  in  better  case)  unprovided  with  so 
much  as  an  umbrella  wherewith  to  defend  myself; 
and  I  must  confess  to  a  momentary  curiosity  as  to 
the  probable  course  of  events  if  that  military  ma- 
chine were  suddenly  to  let  loose  its  power  and  fury 

175 


176  SOULS  IN  KHAKI 

against  us,  or,  at  any  rate,  if  some  of  its  more 
venturesome  spirits  were  to  scramble  on  to  the  level 
or  come  vaulting  over  the  afore-mentioned  modest 
earthworks  into  our  laps. 

"Ah!"  said  the  smiling  Captain,  when  I  put  the 
suggestion  before  him,  "I  only  wish  they  would  try 


it  on." 


And  having  let  slip  the  word  "level,"  in  allusion 
to  that  narrow  belt  of  land  occurring  between  the 
hostile  front  trenches,  I  must  hasten  to  explain  that, 
so  far  as  surface  conditions  were  concerned,  no  word 
could  be  more  grossly  inapplicable. 

Grass  hillocks  we  know.  Sand  dunes  we  know. 
Ploughed  land  we  know.  But  they  reveal  elements 
of  symmetry  and  uniformity,  and  that  fire-swept 
belt  of  No-Man's-Land  was  wholly  unlike  any  of 
them.  It  had  been  smitten,  crumpled,  lashed,  up- 
torn,  and  scarified  by  cascades  of  exploding  shells, 
until  its  surface  of  lawless  irregularity  found  no 
parallel  in  the  aspect  either  of  land  in  any  accus- 
tomed condition  or  of  water  in  any  familiar  state 
of  disturbance,  whether  as  a  whirlpool,  cataract, 
or  tempestuous  sea.  It  was  a  landscape  desolate 
and  dead,  without  leaf  or  grass-blade — indeed,  one 
could  not  but  suppose  that  even  the  worms  and  seeds 
had  been  involved  in  the  general  doom. 

Mind  you,  I  did  not  find  out  all  this  by  peeping 
over  the  parapet.  My  survey  was  made  more  dis- 
creetly. 

Some  fifty  yards  back  we  had  come  upon  an  of- 
ficer taking  observations  through  a  periscope,  and 
he  had  courteously  placed  the  instrument  at  my  dis- 
posal. Thus  I  had  my  first  vision  of  a  paradoxical 


NO-MAN'S-LAND  177 

region  which,  while  it  looks  to  be  as  lonely  and  empty 
as  Crusoe's  uninhabited  isle,  happens  to  be  no  less 
densely  populated  than  a  congested  city.  In  that 
first  revelation  of  the  enemy's  front,  the  only  out- 
standing features  were  gaunt  relics  of  trees  that 
had  been  murdered  and  maimed.  For  the  rest,  it 
was  a  khaki-coloured  foreground  of  clay  in  the  cha- 
otic and  blasted  condition  just  alluded  to — a  fore- 
ground wherein  the  German  advanced  line  was  dis- 
tinguishable as  a  cutting  that  held  a  dark  streak  of 
shadow.  Moreover,  in  front  of  that  streak  of 
shadow  was  a  squalid  higgledy-piggledy  of  tins  and 
tatters  that  had  been  flung  over  the  parapet  to  get 
them  out  of  the  way — discarded  articles  that  did 
not  stand  forth  conspicuous  by  any  distinction  of 
colour  or  tone,  but  which,  having  been  churned  up 
with  the  landscape  by  high  explosives,  had  become 
muddied  over  by  the  clay  in  which  they  were  partly 
embedded. 

Not,  however,  that  the  image  in  the  periscope 
enabled  me  to  grasp  all  that  detail.  But  a  minute 
later,  without  the  aid  of  reflectors,  I  saw,  on  the 
other  side  of  the  trench,  a  belt  of  clay  which,  if  not 
actually  No-Man's-Land,  had  been  No-Man's-Land 
eight  days  before,  and  had  not  since  undergone 
alteration.  At  least,  some  trifling  modification  had 
now  begun  on  the  farther  fringe,  where  a  party  of 
Tommies  were  engaged,  like  scavengers  on  a  dust 
shoot,  in  abstracting  from  the  earth  the  muddiest 
of  rags  and  nondescript  oddments.  That  at  any 
rate  represents  the  impression  made  upon  the  eye 
by  articles  of  equipment  which  had  been  buried  by 


178  SOULS  IN  KHAKI 

bombardment,  but  which,  it  seemed,  would  be  once 
more  serviceable  when  cleaned  and  renovated. 

So  much  for  what  may  be  called  the  shady  side 
of  my  impressions.  Now  for  the  sunshine.  And, 
to  begin  with,  the  sun  was  literally  shining  out  of 
a  deep  blue  sky.  But,  more  important,  a  lark  floated 
overhead — and  this  was  a  fact  that  held  my  atten- 
tion— singing  a  leisurely  full-throated  carol. 

Strange,  the  trenches  had  been  associated  in  one's 
mind  merely  with  thoughts  of  tribulation,  danger, 
and  sudden  death  (under  each  of  which  heads  I 
certainly  had  found  ocular  evidence)  ;  but  when 
one  arrived  at  the  foremost  trench  of  all,  the  dom- 
inant circumstance,  because  the  circumstance  mak- 
ing strongest  appeal  to  one's  senses,  was  that  a  sky- 
lark was  blithely  singing  against  the  azure  heavens. 

And  such  birds  are  constantly  doing  so,  the  Cap- 
tain told  me. 

How  nice  for  our  happy-hearted  lads  in  the 
trenches !  Who  could  doubt  that,  by  spiritual  "wire- 
less," messages  were  passing  from  that  bird  to  those 
boys? 

You  will  vainly  scan  official  communiques  for  any 
mention  of  skylarks  fluttering  and  fluting  over  the 
trenches,  it  being  assumed,  no  doubt,  that  the  pres- 
ence and  utterances  of  those  birds  can  have  neither 
military  nor  political  significance.  Certain  it  is, 
however,  that  their  presence  and  utterances  make  a 
strong  appeal  in  the  domain  of  human  interest,  which 
is  wider  than  that  of  arms  or  politics. 

After  the  Captain  and  I  had  listened  awhile  in 
grateful  silence,  we  resumed  our  exploration  of  the 
trench,  and  soon  came  to  a  party  of  lads  and 


NO-MAN'S-LAND  179 

N.C.O.'s,  several  of  whom,  I  noticed,  stood  with 
smiling,  upturned  faces,  drinking  in  sunshine  and 
the  song  of  another  lark,  poised  immediately  above 
them. 

If  the  notes  of  such  birds  communicate  a  thrill  in 
times  of  security  and  peace,  how  much  greater  the 
scope  of  their  magic  under  opposite  conditions. 
Think  of  the  restricted  opportunities  of  those  who 
for  our  sakes  live  day  after  day  in  an  underground 
prison,  with  little  to  look  at  but  walls  of  clay  and 
a  sky  either  empty  of  variety  or  merely  holding  the 
remote  interest  of  clouds.  Then  think  how  de- 
lighted those  prisoners  must  be  when  in  the  void 
overhead  a  little  bird  comes  and  sings  to  them — a 
little  minstrel-messenger  from  home.  For  to  listen- 
ing Tommy  the  skylarks  sing,  not  in  French,  but 
in  the  plainest  of  plain  English.  And  their  songs 
tell  him  about  his  home,  his  holidays,  and  the  dear 
ones  whose  present  and  future  security  he  is  safe- 
guarding. Nor  do  the  birds  confine  themselves  to 
those  topics.  They  lift  his  thoughts  to  higher  planes 
of  consolation,  and  reiterate  the  assurance  that, 
despite  war  and  wounds,  death  and  sorrow,  all  is 
well  with  the  world. 

But  presently  my  attention  was  called  to  the 
ground  level.  The  Captain  picked  up,  and  handed 
to  me,  the  trenching  tool  of  a  German  soldier — a 
tool  which,  in  size,  was  a  compromise  between  a 
spade  and  a  trowel,  and  which,  besides  being  of 
no  use  as  a  pick,  could  not  be  carried  so  easily  as 
the  English  tool  made  in  two  parts.  That  little 
alien  spade,  however,  was  noteworthy  for  its  struc- 
tural strength,  the  sturdy  ash  handle  being  firmly 


180  SOULS  IN  KHAKI 

fixed  in  a  double  collar  of  steel,  and  the  shoulders 
of  the  blade  being  of  two  fold  thickness  and  heavily 
riveted. 

"If  you  like,"  said  the  thoughtful  Captain,  "you 
can  keep  it  as  a  souvenir." 

But  my  eager  acquiescence  was  interrupted  by  a 
cheerful  lad  who,  proffering  me  another  German 
trenching  tool,  said: 

"Perhaps  you  would  sooner  have  this  one,  as  I 
think  it  is  rather  a  better  specimen." 

Nor  was  his  judgment  at  fault.  The  handle, 
instead  of  being  of  uniform  thickness  throughout, 
ended  in  a  knob  (on  which,  by  the  way,  the  letter 
"W"  had  been  roughly  carved). 

I  thanked  the  lad  and  profited  by  his  friendly 
intervention. 

Rummaging  about  in  the  mud,  the  Captain  and 
I  afterwards  found  other  articles  that  the  former 
occupants  of  the  trench  had  left  behind  them. 

One  was  a  round  metal  box  with  a  hinged  lid, 
which,  when  open,  disclosed  fixed  contents  covered 
by  wire  gauze,  suggesting  that  those  contents  were 
destined  to  be  saturated  with  a  fluid  giving  off 
fumes  available  either  for  heating  or  for  healing. 
This  mysterious  little  apparatus  supplemented  a 
mask,  the  Captain  said,  as  a  remedy  against  gas. 
From  the  interior,  when  at  last  I  had  succeeded  in 
prising  it  out,  there  dripped  a  liquid  which  caused 
deep  discoloration  in  a  pool  of  muddy  water. 

I  was  better  able  to  appreciate  the  ingenuity 
shown  in  another  contrivance  of  which  we  found 
several  examples.  I  refer  to  German  fire-lighters. 
Much  rain  had  recently  fallen,  and  the  trenches 


NO-MAN'S-LAND  181 

thereabouts  held  a  quantity  of  water;  so,  instead 
of  wrestling  with  the  problem  of  how  to  keep  their 
fuel  dry,  our  foes  had  provided  themselves  with 
waterproof  combustibles.  Sticks  saturated  with 
bitumen,  accompanied  by  strips  of  celluloid,  were 
swathed  in  shavings,  the  whole  being  bound  to- 
gether by  a  covering  of  wire  netting.  Such  fuel 
could  be  in  water  one  minute  and  in  a  blaze  the 
next;  and  note  that,  instead  of  this  inflammable 
bundle  swiftly  flaring  away  through  falling  apart, 
its  mechanical  cohesion  ensured  slow  combustion. 
Truly  a  bright  idea. 

Suddenly  my  attention  was  recalled  to  regions 
aloft.  A  group  of  aeroplanes  were  in  view,  being 
attended,  as  usual,  by  those  puffs  of  woolly  white- 
ness that  glow  so  prettily,  like  dainty  little  cumulus 
clouds.  And  here  perhaps  I  may  mention  that  the 
sight  of  such  aircraft  manoeuvring  overhead,  and 
apparently  not  caring  twopence  for  the  shells  sent 
up  after  them,  had  been  of  daily  occurrence — it 
would  scarcely  be  an  exaggeration  to  say,  of  hourly 
occurrence — during  the  succession  of  fine  days  I 
had  spent  at  the  Front;  with  the  result  that  an 
exhibition  which  at  first  was  fascinating  enough, 
had  by  repetition  lost  the  power  to  hold  my  atten- 
tion. True,  a  brisker  interest  was  always  stimu- 
lated when,  instead  of  shells,  opposition  took  the 
form  of  rival  planes ;  and  the  air  battle  under  con- 
sideration swiftly  developed  that  character. 

No  schoolboy  could  have  been  more  interested 
than  was  my  friend  the  Captain.  He  brought  his 
glasses  to  bear  on  the  affair,  and  was  soon  making 
noteworthy  discoveries. 


182  SOULS  IN  KHAKI 

"That's  a  fine  machine  just  coming  up,"  he  was 
presently  exclaiming.  "How  wide  the  wings  are, 
and  what  a  pace  she  is  going  at!  Have  a  look  at 
her;"  and  most  obligingly  he  handed  me  his 
glasses. 

Making  conscientious  efforts  to  get  that  machine 
into  the  field  of  vision,  I  soon  had  a  delightful  sur- 
prise, and  could  not  refrain  from  exclaiming: 

"How  prettily  her  wings  are  fluttering!  And  she 
is  remaining  quite  stationary!" 

"What!"  exclaimed  the  Captain. 

But  I  had  happened  upon  the  skylark,  which  was 
still  singing  joyously,  air-fight  or  no  air-fight. 

Yet  not  for  long  could  the  civilian  share  the  sky- 
lark's detached  standpoint. 

"Ha!"  cried  the  Captain,  "she's  hit!  Do  you 
see?  That  fine  British  plane  heading  right  in  among 
the  Boches.  Look!  she  has  turned.  It  was  splendid 
audacity,  but  I  feared  she  would  pay  the  penalty. 
She's  a  long  way  across  the  lines,  unfortunately. 
Badly  hit,  apparently.  See  how  quickly  she's  falling. 
Hard  lines.  She'll  never  be  able  to  get  back.  Yet 
I  don't  know — perhaps  there's  just  a  chance  1" 

Those  around  us  were  exclaiming  in  unison  with 
the  Captain — hopes  and  fears  alternating  in  each 
breast.  A  novel  sensation  was  involved  in  watching 
those  thrilling  hazards  in  the  constricted  position 
our  situation  necessitated.  It  was  almost  a  case  of 
looking  up  with  one's  head  ducked.  For  we  were 
at  a  part  of  the  trench  where  the  parapet  was  low. 
To  stand  erect  on  gazing  aloft  (as  was  the  natural 
impulse)  would  be,  humanly  speaking,  to  court  a 
death-dealing  wound  in  the  head.  So  we  all  had 


NO-MAN'S-LAND  183 

perforce  to  maintain  a  stooping  or  squatting  posture 
while  following  the  fortunes  of  the  aeroplane. 

Its  angle  of  descent  had  carried  it  far  from  the 
other  flying  machines. 

"Ha!  she's  done  it!"  exclaimed  the  Captain  as 
the  wounded  plane  slid  out  of  sight.  "She'll  land 
on  our  side  after  all!" 

Whereupon,  bidding  farewell  to  friends  of  a  few 
thrilling  moments,  he  and  I  continued  our  return 
journey  through  the  trenches,  from  which  we 
eventually  emerged  at  the  place  of  our  original  en- 
trance. 

Two  minutes  later,  while  we  were  recrossing  the 
ugly  stretch  of  open  country  that  had  the  pretty 
name,  something  happened  which,  though  it  must 
have  been  a  commonplace  and  humdrum  incident  in 
those  parts,  interested  me  not  a  little. 

To  certain  grating  noises  overhead  I  should  no 
doubt  have  been  paying  more  attention  had  the  Cap- 
tain's conversation  made  less  claim  on  my  attention. 
As  it  was,  the  thought  of  shells  was  entirely  absent 
from  my  mind  when  one  burst  less  than  a  hundred 
yards  ahead  of  us. 

For  me  the  occurrence  presented  three  aspects  of 
special  interest.  Firstly,  my  imagination  was  fas- 
cinated by  the  fact  that  the  explosion  had  taken 
place  directly  in  our  path — that  in  a  few  moments 
our  footsteps  would  have  been  in  the  midst  of  the 
boisterous  upheaval  our  eyes  had  just  witnessed. 

In  the  second  place,  my  attention  was  engaged 
by  the  nature  of  that  upheaval.  I  saw  a  huge,  black, 
circular,  up-pouring  of  smoke  and  (definitely  visible) 
earth.  On  a  sudden,  under  pressure  of  the  explo- 


184  SOULS  IN  KHAKI 

sion,  the  ground  had  become  fluid.  That  was  the 
striking  fact — soil  and  sub-soil  rose  in  jets  and  foun- 
tains. The  shell  had  gone  splashing  into  solids. 

Thirdly,  I  realised  at  a  gasp  that,  if  one's  material 
self  were  amid  that  violent  escape  of  upward-flying 
force,  not  so  much  as  a  waistcoat  button  would  be 
likely  to  remain  as  a  recognisable  relic. 

As  we  stood  watching  the  peaceful  spot  where 
that  commotion  had  just  occurred,  another  shell 
fell  in  much  the  same  place,  and  again  there  was  a 
huge  cascade  of  mould,  clay,  grass,  and  roots. 

"Bah!"  exclaimed  the  Captain;  and  I  was  sur- 
prised at  the  note  of  petulance.  "We  want  to  get 
by  there." 

"Can't  we  go  round  another  way?"  I  ventured. 
"Or  wait  till  the  shells  stop  coming?" 

"Wait  till  they  stop  I"  cried  the  Captain.  "Not 
unless  we  want  to  lose  our  lunch  1" 

"But  what  is  the  idea  in  dropping  them  there?" 
I  asked,  beginning  in  turn  to  feel  rather  cross  with 
certain  unknown  German  artillerymen. 

"You  see  that  bit  of  an  old  barn  over  there?" 
(I  duly  took  note  of  a  crumpled  hillock  of  tiles, 
rafters,  and  brickwork.)  "Well,  they've  got  an  idea 
that  it  masks  a  British  battery,  though  as  a  matter 
of  fact  there  isn't  a  gun  anywhere  near.  I've  heard 
of  our  fellows  being  pulled  up  like  this  before," 
he  indignantly  added. 

Fortunately  there  were  Tommies  within  hail,  and, 
on  being  appealed  to  by  the  Captain,  they  indicated 
an  alternative  route  by  which  we  could  reach  our 
destination. 

Whereupon  we  turned  off  at  a  tangent,  and  were 


NO-MAN'S-LAND  185 

soon  treading  duck  boards  which,  by  reason  of  their 
quaking  foundation  and  slimy  surface,  afforded  a 
foothold  that  was  doubly  treacherous.  So  one  had 
to  exercise  a  vigilant  caution  at  every  step. 

Thud!  A  third  shell  went  exploding  into  mother 
earth;  and  I  appealed  to  the  Captain — was  it  fair 
for  them  to  go  on  firing  when  we  could  not  possibly 
look  round  to  see? 

The  Captain's  guffaw  did  not  smother  the  sound 
of  a  fourth  explosion. 

And  so  it  went  on.  The  Germans  were  making 
a  mistake,  but  they  were  making  it  thoroughly. 


CHAPTER  XV 

UNDER  SHELL  FIRE 

An  Easter  reminder — My  Yorkshire  guide:  typical  unselfishness — 
A  treat  for  stranded  aviators — Ypres  in  a  new  aspect — Shell 
holes  galore:  a  landscape  with  the  smallpox — Watching  a  frog 
— The  foundered  biplane — Projectiles  en  route:  streaks  of 
grating  noise — Bursting  shells — Our  narrow  escape — Waiting 
at  the  roadside:  a  trying  experience — The  deafening  British 
battery — Mysterious  absence  of  a  limber — Dodging  the  shells: 
a  lad's  startling  manoeuvre — Tranquil  Tommies — Our  tramp 
along  the  road — Bad  language:  an  exceptional  experience — 
Welcome  eggs  and  chips. 

IN  that  landscape  of  blasted  vegetation  I  chanced 
to  espy,  against  a  stream  behind  some  dug-outs,  a 
sapling  willow  having  branches  aglow  with  golden 
catkins.  And  when  he  saw  me  plucking  a  button- 
hole, the  Captain  cut  a  bunch  to  take  back  to  the 
Colonel. 

But  I  was  not  destined  to  sit  at  a  palm-decked 
table. 

In  our  absence,  it  appeared,  the  wires  had  been 
asking  me  questions. 

The  motor  car  having  broken  down,  would  I  mind 
returning  from  Brigade  Headquarters  on  horseback? 
That  was  the  delayed  interrogation  that  first  de- 
manded attention. 

A  poor  horseman,  with  no  recent  experience  in 

186 


UNDER  SHELL  FIRE  187 

the  saddle,  I  was  not  drawn  to  the  idea  of  being 
inconveniently  perched  with  my  luggage  on  the  back 
of  some  mettlesome  quadruped,  particularly  as  burst- 
ing shells  might  cause  the  sensitive  creature  to  plunge 
and  uprear.  So  my  answer  was  an  inquiry  whether 
Brigade  Headquarters  could  make  any  alternative 
suggestion;  which  was  replied  to  in  the  further  ques- 
tion— Would  I  object  to  journeying  on  a  limber? 

Having  received  the  assurance  that,  so  far  from 
objecting,  I  should  be  proud  to  find  myself  on  such 
a  vehicle,  Brigade  Headquarters  flashed  me  the  final 
request:  Would  I  mind  returning  with  all  con- 
venient speed? 

So,  having  taken  a  hearty  farewell  of  the  Colonel, 
the  Captain,  and  my  other  kind  hosts,  I  soon  found 
myself  proceeding  once  more  over  the  ground  with 
which,  in  its  moonlight  aspect,  I  had  become  familiar 
enough  over-night.  But  I  am  not  able  to  say  what 
projectiles  were  this  time  passing  through  the  at- 
mosphere, my  attention  being  fully  engaged  with 
the  young  Yorkshire  lad  who  acted  as  escort  and 
carried  my  bag. 

Obviously  in  obedience  to  orders,  he  insisted  on 
rapid  walking.  For  the  rest,  his  mind  yielded  pleas- 
ant confirmation  of  the  human  evidence  on  which 
I  had  already  happened.  Quiet  and  thoughtful  in 
manner,  he  was  soon  dumbfounding  me  with  surely 
the  prettiest  little  speeches  that  a  soldier  boy  ever 
addressed  to  a  civilian  senior. 

It  seemed  he  considered  it  meritorious  that  a 
person  who  had  outgrown  the  period  of  early  man- 
hood, and  upon  whom  accordingly  there  rested  no 
obligation  of  military  service,  should  have  volun- 


188  SOULS  IN  KHAKI 

tarily  entered  the  area  of  discomfort  and  peril. 
Young  chaps,  he  held,  were  in  an  altogether  differ- 
ent position,  because — apart  from  the  fact  that  it 
was  their  duty  to  defend  the  Empire — they  naturally 
found  in  the  war  a  congenial  outlet  for  their  strength, 
vigour,  and  high  spirits. 

The  obvious  blemish  in  this  argument,  of  course, 
was  that  he  could  not  possibly  be  enjoying  his  stay 
at  the  Front  more  than  I  was  enjoying  my  visit 
there;  but  before  opportunity  served  for  this  to 
be  pointed  out,  he  drew  from  his  pocket  the  bat- 
tered nose  of  a  German  shell  and  diffidently  asked 
me  if  I  would  like  it.  My  answer  was  an  eager 
affirmative,  coupled  with  the  statement  that  I  was 
wanting  to  buy  such  things  as  souvenirs;  to  which 
he  replied  that  he  could  not  sell  me  any,  but  that 
I  need  not  hesitate  to  accept  the  one  he  offered,  as 
he  could  easily  get  another. 

From  which  we  see  that  this  lad  soared  above  his 
material  conditions  and  figured  as  an  attractive  and 
a  gracious  personality;  for  a  person's  nobility  is 
ever  in  proportion  as  he  is  solicitous  for  the  interests 
of  others  and  indifferent  to  his  own.  It  may  be,  of 
course,  that  he  was  such  a  one  as,  in  former  times 
of  peace,  would  have  been  equally  concerned  to 
please  and  benefit  a  complete  stranger  thrown  for 
a  few  minutes  into  his  company;  but  at  any  rate 
his  mental  attitude  was,  so  far  as  my  own  experience 
went,  typical  of  our  lads  at  the  Front,  whom  I  every- 
where found  arrayed  in  the  splendour  of  unselfish- 
ness, and  with  a  smile  upon  their  lips. 

At  Brigade  Headquarters  I  was  received  by  the 
young  officer  who  had  previously  dealt  with  me.  He 


UNDER  SHELL  FIRE  189 

counselled  speed  in  the  readjustment  of  my  lug- 
gage, since  it  was  important  that  I  should  arrive 
by  one  o'clock  at  an  indicated  part  of  a  specified 
road,  when  and  where,  it  seemed,  the  limber  would 
await  me. 

"It's  a  shame,  though,"  he  was  presently  remark- 
ing, "that  you  cannot  stay  to  lunch,  as  you  would 
meet  a  couple  of  airmen  who  have  just  been  driven 
down." 

"In  a  biplane,  half  an  hour  ago?"  I  eagerly  in- 
quired. 

"Yes;  there  was  a  big  scrap.     Did  you  see  it?" 

I  told  him  how  some  of  us  had  a  splendid  view 
from  the  Bluff. 

"Then  you  must  spare  a  moment  to  come  and 
be  introduced,"  insisted  the  young  officer;  and,  en- 
tering the  apartment  where  lunch  was  set,  I  found 
two  beaming  young  aviators  warming  themselves  be- 
fore a  fire. 

"Hurt?  Not  a  bit  of  it,"  one  was  soon  assuring 
me.  "A  small  scratch — that's  all." 

I  explained  how  interested  we  had  been  in  the 
encounter,  and  how  much  we  deplored  their  bad 
luck. 

"Our  good  luck,  more  like  it!"  chimed  in  the 
other  aerial  adventurer.  "Why,  we  got  the  informa- 
tion we  went  for;  our  machine  is  not  hurt;  we're  all 
right;  and"  (here  he  turned  smilingly  to  the  on- 
looking  subalterns),  "they've  promised,  now  we're 
here,  to  let  us  have  a  look  at  the  trenches — which 
is  just  what  we've  been  wanting  to  do  for  a  long 
time.  So  we  reckon  we're  jolly  lucky." 

And  so,  indeed,  they  were,  though  not  till  some 


190  SOULS  IN  KHAKI 

ten  minutes  later  was  I  in  a  position  fully  to  appre- 
ciate their  good  fortune. 

Meanwhile  the  young  officer  had  sent  me  forth 
with  two  scouts,  who  carried  my  belongings  between 
them. 

In  one  direction  lay  Ypres.  We  started  off  in 
another,  but  not  before  our  glimpse  of  the  city  had 
impressed  a  new  image  upon  my  mind. 

In  the  bright  sunshine,  walls,  roofs,  and  towers 
looked  clean,  new,  and  conspicuous.  And  yet, 
strangely  enough,  the  city's  distinctness  was  a  proof 
of  its  doom.  There  was  no  chimney  smoke  to  dim 
the  atmosphere ;  and  a  city  of  cold  chimneys  is  neces- 
sarily a  dead  city.  Moreover,  an  occasional  shell- 
burst  over  the  houses  supplied  the  imagination  with 
a  further  clue  to  the  uninhabited  condition  of  Ypres. 

Not  that  the  German  artillery  was  by  any  means 
confining  its  attention  to  the  city. 

We  were  crossing  a  field  that  was  pitted  with 
shell  holes  of  various  sizes,  many  containing  water. 
Stopping  beside  a  cluster  of  them,  I  saw  a  little 
frog  clamber  out  of  one  round  swimming  bath,  and, 
after  traversing  a  few  intervening  inches  of  dry  land, 
plunge  into  another.  It  seemed  a  pathetically  risky 
place  for  a  poor  little  unsuspecting  yellow  frog  to 
be  taking  amphibious  exercise  in. 

But  the  boys  did  not  encourage  natural  history 
observations.  We  had  only  a  quarter  of  an  hour, 
they  pointed  out,  in  which  to  reach  our  rendezvous ; 
and  they  were  agreed  that,  if  we  failed  to  be  there 
to  time,  the  limber  would  be  unlikely  to  wait  for 
us.  On  demurring  to  this  view,  I  was  informed 
that  the  section  of  road  to  which  we  were  bound 


UNDER  SHELL  FIRE  191 

was,  because  so  frequently  shelled,  unpopular  with 
the  drivers  of  vehicles. 

On  we  went  again  across  an  area  which  suggested 
peaceful  sylvan  scenery  and  the  infernal  regions, 
intimately  mixed.  Trees  and  hedges  were  broken 
and  shorn,  and  everywhere  the  ground  was  disfig- 
ured by  craters — a  land  with  the  smallpox.  Nor 
must  it  be  assumed  that  the  bombardment  of  that 
locality  was  a  mere  affair  of  the  past.  It  was  also 
an  affair  of  the  present. 

The  reader  will  remember  that  high  explosives 
had  been  brought  under  my  personal  notice  earlier 
in  the  day.  Opportunity  was  now  afforded  for  a 
closer  study,  in  various  interesting  aspects,  of  the 
dangerous  contrivances  which  rival  nations  see  fit 
to  discharge  at  one  another.  Indeed,  shells  and 
their  ways  made  so  strong  a  claim  on  my  attention 
that  when,  in  a  little  space  surrounded  by  trees,  we 
beheld  a  great  biplane  at  rest,  I  spared  only  a  pass- 
ing thought  to  the  airman's  cause  for  gratitude  in 
having  achieved,  amid  those  encircling  perils,  a  safe 
landing. 

We  could  see  shells  (as  occasionally  they  burst 
in  the  air  away  to  the  right  or  the  left),  and — 
which  came  to  be  by  far  the  more  impressive  ex- 
perience— we  could  hear  them  travelling.  One  can 
express  it  not  otherwise  than  that  they  were  pass- 
ing overhead  in  straight  lines  of  sound — in  straight, 
harsh,  grating  lines  of  sound.  The  din  suggested 
thunder,  except  that  claps  do  not  follow  definite 
tracks.  It  further  suggested  a  magnified  version  of 
the  process  of  moving  furniture  in  a  room  upstairs, 
except  that  bedstead  and  wardrobe  do  not  betray 


192  SOULS  IN  KHAKI 

an  even  momentum  sustained  over  miles  of  progress. 
For  note  that,  not  only  did  the  sound  of  a  hurtling 
shell  assume  the  character  of  a  line,  but  that  line 
revealed  itself  in  perspective.  You  distinctly  heard 
the  invisible  projectile  coming  from  far  away,  jour- 
neying noisily  overhead  and  continuing  onward  with 
fading  audibility.  Sometimes  one  heard  two  pro- 
ceeding along  parallel  routes. 

Shells  were  going  in  both  directions  (for  not  only 
was  the  enemy  firing  at  us,  but  we  were  firing  at 
the  enemy),  and  every  now  and  then  they  could 
be  heard  passing  one  another.  Also,  the  German 
shells  came  from  different  directions  (for  we  were 
inside  a  salient),  their  routes  seeming  to  converge 
a  little  way  ahead  of  us.  There  came,  indeed,  to 
be  a  skein  of  invisible  lines  of  noise  in  the  heavens. 

On  the  concluding  stage  of  our  walk  we  saw 
shells  bursting  above  a  shattered  homestead,  some 
hundred  yards  or  so  to  our  left.  Over  Ypres  on 
our  right  we  also  saw  the  pretty  puffs  of  woolli- 
ness.  But  most  of  the  shells  travelled  beyond  our 
ken. 

As,  two  minutes  ahead  of  appointed  time,  we 
drew  near  to  the  road,  I  found  a  double  claim  on 
my  attention. 

"No  sign  of  any  limber!"  remarked  one  of  the 
lads;  and  indeed  the  roadway  was  empty. 

"H'm!"  murmured  the  other  lad,  as  he  glanced 
over  his  shoulder,  "it's  just  as  well  weVe  got  past 
there." 

Between  the  two  remarks  there  had  been  a  re- 
sounding explosion,  and  I  turned  in  time  to  see  the 
black  smoke  that  came  from  a  shell-burst.  But  the 


UNDER  SHELL  FIRE  193 

point  of  interest  was  that  the  explosion  had  oc- 
curred only  about  eighty  yards  behind  us,  on  ground 
we  were  traversing  a  minute  before. 

A  quiet  smile  played  on  the  face  of  the  lad  who 
had  noted  the  explosion.  The  other  lad  continued 
to  be  interested  in  the  non-arrival  of  my  limber. 
He  opined  (and  his  comrade  agreed)  that  it  would 
soon  appear. 

Then  we  began  patiently  waiting  by  the  side  of 
the  road. 

A  quarter  of  an  hour  later  we  were  still  waiting 
there,  if  less  patiently.  In  the  meantime  there  had 
been  certain  developments. 

For  one  thing,  the  space  over  our  heads  had  to 
an  increasing  degree  been  striated  with  streaks  of 
grating  sound,  and  several  shells  had  exploded  within 
sight.  For  another  thing,  a  British  battery  had 
opened  fire  a  little  way  up  the  road. 

After  the  first  deafening  roar,  there  hung  in  the 
air  a  gigantic  ring  of  smoke. 

"That's  given  away  the  position,"  deplored  one 
of  my  companions  (and,  indeed,  hostile  aircraft  had 
but  recently  been  visible).  The  battery  continued 
at  intervals  to  emit  shells  and  uproar  (though  no 
more  rings),  and  thus  the  coming  of  retaliating 
projectiles  in  our  vicinity  might  be  expected. 

The  situation  was  something  worse  than  unsat- 
isfactory. To  shift  our  ground  would  be  to  risk 
missing  the  limber;  besides,  there  did  not  seem  much 
to  choose,  so  far  as  grim  possibilities  were  concerned, 
between  one  spot  and  another.  I  also  felt  debarred 
from  moving  off  altogether,  because  my  destina- 
tion was  a  town  several  miles  away,  and  to  jour- 


194  SOULS  IN  KHAKI 

ney  there  on  foot,  carrying  so  much  baggage,  was 
too  heroic  an  undertaking  for  me  to  enter  upon 
alone.  Nor  had  I  any  right  to  enlist  the  two  lads 
into  such  an  enterprise.  As  it  was,  my  conscience 
smote  me  for  the  plight  in  which  I  had  unwittingly 
involved  them.  For,  as  bad  luck  would  have  it, 
they  had  been  on  the  point  of  sitting  down  to  din- 
ner when  their  services  were  requisitioned  on  my  be- 
half. Both  went  on  smiling  and  chatting  with  sus- 
tained serenity;  but  full  well  I  knew  that  two  such 
strong  and  healthy  young  fellows,  following  so 
strenuous  an  open-air  existence,  would  have  a  zest 
for  their  meals,  and  must  now  be  suffering  pangs  of 
hunger.  Truth  to  tell,  sensations  nearer  home  as- 
sisted my  insight  into  the  case  of  those  lads.  For 
circumstances  had  also  defrauded  me  of  my  lunch. 

It  was  the  one  occasion  when  the  danger  affected 
me  with  a  feeling  of  distaste  and  apprehension.  But 
this  emotion  was  closely  associated  with  a  resent- 
ment of  the  state  of  inertia  to  which  the  non-arrival 
of  the  limber  condemned  me.  It  had  been  easy, 
nay  exhilarating,  to  walk  and  drive  amid  perils; 
but  to  be  standing  passive  so  long  in  such  a  situation, 
and  to  feel  oneself  left  in  the  lurch,  with  no  means 
of  escape,  proved  another  matter  altogether.  It 
was  trying  to  the  nerves.  I  itched  to  be  on  the 
move. 

Amid  numerous  conjectures  as  to  why  the  limber 
had  failed  us,  a  prominent  place  was  taken  by  the 
misgiving  that,  falling  into  a  common  error,  the 
driver  might  be  awaiting  us  half  a  mile  farther  on, 
at  a  bend  in  the  road  frequently  confused  with  the 
bend  where  we  were  stationed. 


UNDER  SHELL  FIRE  195 

One  boy  at  last  went  off  to  put  this  supposition 
to  the  proof.  But  half  an  hour  later  he  returned 
shaking  his  head.  It  seemed  he  had  seen  no  sign 
of  any  limber. 

"All  I  saw,"  he  smilingly  explained,  "was  a  wheel 
lying  in  a  ditch";  and  indeed  by  this  time  a  hypoth- 
esis finding  some  favour  was  that  a  shell  had  pre- 
vented the  limber  keeping  its  appointment. 

But,  however  that  might  be,  I  had  had  about 
enough  of  standing  inert  under  that  canopy  of  trav- 
elling and  bursting  projectiles;  the  exhaustion  of 
my  patience  having  no  doubt  been  assisted  by  a  little 
incident  that  occurred  while  the  lad  was  gone  on 
his  vain  quest. 

Suddenly  the  other  boy,  with  whom  I  had  been 
enjoying  the  most  placid  of  chats,  was  possessed 
by  a  spirit  of  feverish  activity.  Out  flew  his  hands 
against  the  stump  of  a  telegraph  pole  beside  which 
we  stood.  With  a  wild  leap  he  swung  half  way 
round  the  black  wooden  column.  Then  he  crouched 
to  earth. 

Nor  had  I  been  in  any  doubt  as  to  the  meaning 
of  this  manoeuvre.  It,  however,  found  me  unpre- 
pared. My  companion  was,  indeed,  up  and  apologis- 
ing while  I  still  hesitated  about  following  his  ex- 
ample. 

These  and  other  lads  had  told  me  that,  after  a 
few  weeks'  experience  under  fire,  one  can  hear  if  a 
shell  be  about  to  come  down  in  one's  vicinity.  The 
ear  detects  a  lessening  of  its  pace,  and  there  is  an  in- 
creasing volume  of  sound,  as  it  curves  earthward 
— so,  at  least,  I  understood  my  informants  to  con- 
tend, though  the  explanation  did  not  very  obviously 


196  SOULS  IN  KHAKI 

harmonise  with  another  piece  of  instruction  forth- 
coming at  the  Front:  namely,  that  a  shell  travels 
more  quickly  than  does  the  sound  it  makes  in  travel- 
ling. However,  the  force  of  an  explosion  being 
outward  and  upward,  certainly  the  bystander,  if 
he  hear  a  shell  coming,  is  well  advised  to  exchange 
a  perpendicular  for  a  horizontal  attitude. 

Of  course  it  sometimes  happens,  as  in  the  case 
under  consideration,  that  a  shell  will  continue  on  its 
course  after  provision  has  been  made,  in  the  man- 
ner indicated,  for  its  arrival  on  earth.  But  if  my 
companion's  misgiving  proved  ill-founded,  at  least 
he  succeeded  in  making  me  jump,  and  in  strengthen- 
ing my  disinclination  any  longer  to  remain  inactive 
under  fire. 

Before,  however,  stating  what  further  befell  us, 
I  would  like  to  mention  one  additional  fact  belong- 
ing to  our  two  hours'  sojourn  by  the  roadside. 

Every  now  and  then  Tommies  would  move  across 
that  shell-swept  zone — Tommies  in  twos  and  fours 
and  sixes.  And  how,  I  wonder,  does  the  reader 
picture  them? 

They  might  have  been  moving  with  precipitancy, 
their  manner  revealing  anxiety  or  perturbation. 
They  might  have  been  swinging  along  and  demon- 
strating their  contempt  of  danger  by  words  of  rib- 
aldry or  scoffing.  They  might  have  been  advanc- 
ing, with  bent  brows  and  set  lips,  oppressed  by  a 
sense  of  impending  doom.  But  they  were  doing 
none  of  these  things. 

As  with  my  two  companions,  and  with  all  the 
other  lads  I  had  met  at  the  Front,  tranquillity  was 
their  chief  characteristic.  They  were  walking  softly 


UNDER  SHELL  FIRE  197 

and  talking  quietly,  their  faces  reflecting  not  merely 
composure  but  complacency.  Under  no  other  cir- 
cumstances can  I  conceive,  among  so  many  men  and 
lads,  such  a  sustained  level  of  placidity.  It  was  not 
a  case  of  familiarity  with  danger  having  bred  in- 
difference. Their  constant  watchfulness,  and  the 
care  with  which  they  chose  the  most  sheltered  routes, 
proved  them  by  no  means  forgetful  of  their  peril; 
but  the  remembrance  found  them  calm  and  content. 

And  now  to  continue. 

Our  programme  left  much  to  chance  when  we 
started  on  our  tramp,  with  my  two  cheery  com- 
panions carrying  all  the  luggage.  For  half  an  hour 
it  was  our  fate  to  journey  along  shell-smitten  roads, 
all  the  time  drawing  farther  away  from  the  German 
artillery.  Indeed,  we  presently  arrived  in  a  favoured 
region  where  no  exploding  shells  were  audible.  And 
here  I  had  a  remarkable  experience. 

At  cross-roads  (where  it  seemed  not  unreason- 
able to  hope  for  a  stray  ammunition  waggon  going 
my  way)  we  sat  on  a  bench  in  company  with  a  youth- 
ful Tommy  who,  as  I  inferred,  was  stationed  within 
contiguous  skeleton  walls,  which  had  no  doubt  once 
formed  part  of  a  commodious  estaminet.  He  was 
talking  on  some  matter  of  minor  importance,  when 
into  one  of  his  remarks  he  surprised  me  by  intro- 
ducing an  oath. 

The  power  to  astonish  was  due  to  the  novelty. 
It  was  my  first  and  last  experience  of  bad  language 
at  the  Front. 

I  took  occasion  to  ask  the  boy  when  he  last  saw 
a  shell  explode. 

"Fritz  put  over  a  couple  into  that  field/'  he  re- 


198  SOULS  IN  KHAKI 

plied,  indicating  a  torn  and  ragged  meadow,  "three 
days  ago.  There's  been  nothing  doing  since." 

Anon  we  were  once  more  trudging  along  the  road, 
soon  to  arrive  in  a  village  which,  though  shells  had 
damaged  most  of  the  houses  they  had  not  destroyed, 
still  retained  a  portion  of  its  civil  population.  One 
battered  house-front  bore  the  attractive  legend, 
"Eggs  and  Chips";  and  presently  we  three  joined 
several  Tommies  in  a  dingy  little  public  parlour, 
where  each  of  us  received  a  liberal  serving  of  the 
advertised  food,  supplemented  by  slabs  of  bread 
and  mugs  of  indifferent  coffee. 

The  proprietor  (whose  charges  were  unexpectedly 
modest)  abode  on  the  premises  with  his  wife  and 
five  children;  and  while  feeling  personally  indebted 
to  him  for  remaining  at  his  place  of  business,  I 
could  not  help  wishing  that  he  had  dispatched  his 
family  to  a  safer  locality. 

The  discovery  of  that  roadside  victualler  marked 
the  turning  point  of  my  fortunes,  for  on  emerging 
from  his  establishment,  we  happened  upon  a  little 
military  cart  going  whither  I  was  bound. 

The  driver  made  me  welcome  to  a  seat  by  his 
side,  and,  having  bidden  the  two  lads  a  reluctant 
farewell,  I  surrendered  myself  to  the  good  whole- 
some bumping  that  preceded  my  return  to  civilisa- 
tion and  the  Press  officer. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

SPIRITUAL   SUPREMACY 

War  Office  brotherliness — Colonel  Bate's  hospital — Effective  treat- 
ment of  war-worn  soldiers — The  registration  of  British  graves 
Testing  the  records — Pressed  flowers  in  an  official  envelope — 
The  tenderness  of  militarism — An  interview  at  G.H.Q. — The 
General's  reproof — Adventures  at  La  Bassee — Smiles  and  snip- 
ing— An  incident  in  a  crater — Attached  to  a  Public  Schools 
battalion — My  orderly  and  his  pathetic  experiences — A  Stepney 
boy — Horseplay  arrested  by  hymns — A  Cockney  climbing  the 
Golden  Stairs — "I  know  that  His  arms  are  round  me." 

COULD  the  comparison  be  instituted,  as  a  matter 
of  personal  experience,  between  the  great  wars  of 
past  days  and  the  greater  war  of  our  own  time, 
perhaps  the  modern  development  to  excite  most 
remark  would  be,  not  man's  hostilities  up  amid  the 
clouds  and  down  among  the  fishes,  but  the  new  lati- 
tude allowed  in  army  organisation  to  the  principle 
of  humanity. 

Of  the  great  Salvation  Army  huts — those  wooden 
temples  of  rest  and  refreshment  for  body  and  soul 
— the  reader  has  already  been  afforded  some  idea; 
and  here  let  me  say  that  if  in  the  crowded  huts  of 
our  training  camps  at  home,  Tommy  showed  a  zest 
for  honest  food  values  and  for  a  helpful  spiritual 
atmosphere,  such  appreciation  was  even  keener  in 

199 


200  SOULS  IN  KHAKI 

the  still  more  crowded  huts  of  the  campaign  camps 
abroad. 

But  my  most  inspiring  experience  in  this  connec- 
tion was  to  find  the  Salvation  Army  spirit — practical 
organised  brotherliness — guiding  the  administration 
of  two  War  Office  institutions  which,  pending  ar- 
rangements for  my  return  to  the  firing  line,  I  visited 
from  General  Headquarters. 

Many  unwounded  soldiers  become  unfit  for  duty 
through  general  causes,  and  Colonel  Bate,  given  the 
task  of  providing  for  their  special  needs,  found  him- 
self tackling  a  piece  of  pioneer  work.  For  modern 
trench  warfare  creates  its  own  therapeutic  problems, 
and  the  South  African  campaign  had  bequeathed  him 
no  useful  guidance. 

Colonel  Bate  went  to  work  with  a  disused  distil- 
lery, several  acres  of  adjoining  land,  an  assortment 
of  outhouses,  a  capacity  for  conquering  difficulties, 
and  the  belief  that  nothing  is  too  good  for  Tommy. 

At  the  date  of  my  visit  he  had  already  treated 
35,000  patients,  and  of  those  broken  and  useless  sol- 
diers 70  per  cent,  had  returned  to  their  regiments 
mended  and  (compared  with  new  arrivals  at  the 
Front)  of  double  value. 

"For,"  explained  the  Colonel,  "a  man  accustomed 
to  the  trenches  is  twice  as  useful  as  an  inexperienced 


man." 


Each  patient  stays  a  fortnight  in  the  institution, 
of  which,  before  inspecting  the  interior,  I  visited 
the  entrance  and  the  exit.  At  the  former  some  Lon- 
don motor  omnibuses  had  just  arrived  with  freights 
of  pale,  dirty,  tottery,  war-worn  invalids.  At  the 


SPIRITUAL  SUPREMACY  201 

latter  a  company  of  healthy,  hearty,  and  spruce  sol- 
diers were  taking  their  leave. 

On  emerging  from  warm  baths,  the  Colonel's 
guests  receive  new  clothing  and  effective  treatment 
for  skin  troubles;  after  which  their  teeth  and  their 
feet  are  seen  to.  Restful  sleep  in  comfortable  beds; 
nourishing  and  attractive  meals ;  facilities  for  mental 
and  physical  recreation — such  are  general  features 
of  the  treatment.  Dentistry  alone  represents  a  huge 
department,  and  I  found  an  army  of  artificers  at 
work  on  false  teeth.  A  specially  constructed  cinema, 
seating  an  audience  of  400  persons,  is  adaptable  as 
a  church  on  Sundays,  the  choir-end  being  partitioned 
off  on  week-days  as  an  ever-open  shrine  for  prayer 
and  meditation. 

Finally,  the  patient  is  freshly  and  fully  equipped 
from  head  to  heel,  so  that,  renewed  within  and 
without,  he  leaves  Colonel  Bate's  hospital  without 
an  ache  in  his  body,  a  hole  in  his  socks,  or  a  speck 
on  his  rifle. 

The  grateful  lads  are  ever  eager  to  make  some 
return  for  the  kindness  shown  them.  Gardener  pa- 
tients keep  the  flower  borders  in  excellent  trim.  Rep- 
resentatives of  other  trades  and  callings  render  ex- 
pert services  after  their  kind.  The  tinsmiths  make 
souvenirs  for  the  Colonel  to  bestow  on  his  visitors. 
I  received  a  serviette-ring  made  (down  to  the  very 
solder  used  in  joining  it)  out  of  a  biscuit  tin. 

In  the  other  institution — that  concerned  with  the 
care  and  registration  of  British  graves  in  France 
and  Belgium — human  sympathy  was  seen  also  to  be 
exercising  a  widespread  healing  influence.  Here 
again  aims  had  to  suggest  methods  with  little  as- 


202  SOULS  IN  KHAKI 

sistance  from  precedents;  and  circumstances  enabled 
me  to  test  and  appreciate  the  efficiency  of  an  organi- 
sation which,  with  an  historic  old  chateau  for  its 
headquarters,  has  grown  under  the  creative  skill  of 
Lieutenant-Colonel  Weir. 

In  one  department,  I  indicated  the  graves  (among 
those  on  my  Salvation  Army  list)  that  I  had  been 
unable  to  find,  and  at  once  the  precise  situation  was 
revealed  in  every  case  save  one,  which  was  reported 
as  within  the  German  lines. 

So  far — the  Colonel  told  me — 47,000  graves  had 
been  visited  and  53,000  registered,  while  100  men 
and  38  motor  cars  were  employed  on  the  work. 

"Searching  for  graves  within  the  zone  of  fire," 
continued  the  Colonel,  "is,  of  course,  hazardous 
work,  and  only  yesterday,  I  grieve  to  say,  one  of  my 
most  valued  assistants  was  killed  while  on  duty  in 
the  Ypres  salient.  He  was  a  fine  fellow  and  abso- 
lutely devoted  to  his  work,  which  had  been  concerned 
more  particularly  with  the  cemetery  at  Bethune.  So 
we  have  arranged  that  he  shall  be  laid  to  rest  there 
< — which  I  am  sure  would  have  been  his  own  wish. 

"You  will  have  noticed,"  the  Colonel  was  pres- 
ently adding,  "that  the  men  have  small  white  crosses, 
while  the  creosoted  pine-wood  crosses  put  over  offi- 
cers' graves  are  larger,  and  that  the  two  classes  are 
kept  apart.  Officers  have  been  objecting  to  this 
practice.  They  say  they  would  prefer  to  be  buried 
among  their  men,  and  that  the  idea  of  a  superior 
memorial  is  repugnant  to  them.  So  we  are  propos- 
ing to  do  away  with  the  differential  treatment." 

The  work  had  only  recently  commenced,  but  there 
had  already  been  several  thousand  inquiries  as  to  the 


SPIRITUAL  SUPREMACY  203 

location  and  condition  of  graves,  of  which  2,000  pho- 
tographs had  been  dispatched  to  bereaved  kinsfolk. 

"The  British  Red  Cross  Society,"  Colonel  Weir 
explained,  "puts  aside  £50  a  week  to  defray  the 
cost  of  the  photographs  and  of  planting  flowers  on 
the  graves,  and  in  the  latter  part  of  our  work  we 
have  recently  been  helped  by  the  assistant  director 
of  Kew  Gardens." 

In  one  department  of  the  old  chateau  I  found  a 
number  of  cartographers  making  large-scale  plans 
of  cemeteries  within  range  of  the  hostile  artillery, 
every  grave  being  indicated  in  its  precise  situation. 
If,  therefore  (and  experience  had  prompted  the  pre- 
caution), one  of  those  burial-grounds  were  after- 
wards to  be  bombarded  and  its  surface-marks  oblit- 
erated, their  accurate  replacement  would  prove  easy. 

Elsewhere  I  chanced  to  espy  a  glowing  sheet  of 
bloom — crosses,  wreaths,  and  other  floral  emblems, 
all  labelled  and  grouped  in  readiness  for  dispatch 
in  motor  cars  to  various  parts  of  Northern  France 
and  South-west  Belgium. 

But  the  Colonel  was  troubled  at  this  accidental 
discovery  of  mine. 

"That,"  he  hastened  to  explain,  "lies  outside  our 
scope.  Our  primary  duty  is  to  find,  identify,  and 
mark  the  graves,  and  that  duty  taxes  the  energies 
of  our  limited  staff.  We  cannot  undertake  the  plac- 
ing of  tokens  on  the  graves,  and  the  public  must 
not  be  encouraged  to  believe  that  we  can.  As  for 
those  you  saw,  they  have  been  provided  in  ignorance 
of  our  inability  to  do  that  work;  but — well,  I  dare 
say  our  officers  in  these  cases  will  find  time  to  lay 
them  on  the  graves." 


204  SOULS  IN  KHAKI 

And  in  this  connection  I  cannot  forbear  from 
mentioning  an  incident  that  has  since  come  within 
my  personal  knowledge.  It  was  a  case  of  the  kind 
just  indicated — namely,  where  the  Bureau,  as  a  spe- 
cial concession,  conveyed  a  young  widow's  tokens  to 
the  sacred  destination,  afterwards  writing  to  tell  her 

that  this  had  been  done  by  "Captain ,  who,  with 

his  usual  consideration,  has  forwarded  the  enclosed 
flowers  which  he  found  growing  on  the  grave" ;  and 
the  official  letter  contained  a  little  packet  of  care- 
fully pressed  and  preserved  primula  blooms. 

Where  will  you  easily  find  the  parallel  of  that 
spirit — outside  the  Salvation  Army,  the  Churches, 
and  such  institutions  as  the  Y.M.C.A.  (which  has 
won  so  splendid  a  prominence  in  the  war)  ? 

"The  arrogance  and  ruthlessness  of  militarism" 
— for  many  years  I  have  accepted  that  orthodox 
political  thought  as  a  truism.  It  suggests  a  self- 
evident  proposition,  and  seems  a  mere  matter  of 
logic  and  common  sense.  Champions  of  militarism 
have  let  it  pass  with  an  acquiescent  shrug — nay,  some 
have  accepted  ruthlessness,  if  not  as  a  virtue,  at  any 
rate  as  a  beneficial  force.  In  my  experience,  indeed, 
the  thought  has  gone  entirely  unconfuted — except  at 
last  by  the  facts. 

At  the  Front  I  found  only  the  reverse  of  arro- 
gance and  ruthlessness.  Get  at  close  quarters  with 
the  machine,  see  it  actually  at  work — and  behold  the 
tenderness  of  militarism. 

Following  my  visits  to  the  firing  zone,  a  General 
in  high  command  at  G.H.Q.  asked  me  what  had 
chiefly  impressed  me  along  the  lines. 

"Our  men,"  I  told  him. 


SPIRITUAL  SUPREMACY  205 

"Yes,"  he  replied  with  a  smile,  "wonderrul,  aren't 
they?  Quite  amazing.  Why,  I  thought  I  knew  the 
British  soldier  before  this  war  broke  out,  but  since 
then  he  has  again  and  again  been  a  new  revelation 
to  me.  But  tell  me,  what  has  surprised  you  most 
in  the  British  soldier  as  you  have  seen  him  out  here?" 

"His  spirituality,"  was  my  reply.  "By  which  I 
mean,  his  sense  of  the  Unseen — his  reliance  on  the 
Unseen — the  peaceful  outlook  of  his  mind  as  he 
stands  indifferent  amid  material  dangers." 

"But,"  replied  the  General,  a  trifle  sternly,  "surely 
you  need  not  have  been  surprised  at  that.  How 
could  it  be  otherwise?  We  soldiers  on  a  campaign 
are  right  up  against  death.  The  near  view,  of  course, 
gives  a  new  distinctness  to  what  lies  beyond." 

As  he  spoke,  I  felt  ashamed  of  the  surprise  to 
which  it  had  been  necessary  to  confess.  A  thousand 
apologies  to  our  splendid  men  of  all  ranks.  We 
self-centred  civilians,  careless  in  our  sense  of  se- 
curity, are  apt  to  see  only  remote  shadows  where  the 
self-sacrificing  soldier,  standing  at  attention,  sees 
rock-like  realities. 

All  my  experience  at  the  Front  pointed  that  way. 
Indeed,  this  fact  renders  superfluous  a  detailed  ac- 
count of  further  adventures  under  fire. 

As  I  went  creeping  with  ducked  head  along  front 
trenches  at  La  Bassee,  dodging  round  the  brick- 
stacks  and  stepping  gingerly  into  mine  craters,  my 
guide  was  a  young  Intelligence  Captain,  whose  face 
wore  a  bright  smile^  which  faded  not  even  as  we 
wriggled  through  dank  channels  cut  in  the  clay,  or 
squeezed  along  a  narrow  passage  where  one  could 
feel  bullets  striking  the  other  side  of  sandbags  that 


206  SOULS  IN  KHAKI 

our  hands  and  limbs  were  touching.  And  the  scores 
and  scores  of  men  and  lads  we  passed — their  de- 
meanour also  bore  witness  to  fraternity,  a  supreme 
composure,  and  an  indifference  to  self.  Neither  by 
word  nor  look  was  there  hint  of  repugnance,  impa- 
tience, or  self-pity — emotions  which,  perils  apart, 
would  not  have  lacked  justification. 

They  slept  and  took  their  meals  in  muddy  holes, 
did  those  defenders  of  European  freedom  and  the 
British  Empire;  and  their  heavy  clothing — nay,  in 
places  their  very  flesh — was  caked  with  dirt. 

What  glorious  grime !  For  others*  sake,  and  at 
duty's  call,  Britain's  sons  were  not  only  risking  their 
lives  (which,  after  all,  is  a  clean,  wholesome,  and  re- 
spectable thing  to  do),  but  cheerfully  incurring  ver- 
min; and  that  is  patriotism  of  a  more  subtle  excel- 
lence. 

But  the  kindly  human  note — that  is  what  I  fain 
would  reveal  to  the  reader.  It  was  the  more  pro- 
nounced the  closer  we  came  to  war's  grim  affairs. 

My  gracious  young  Captain  heard  grenades  ex- 
ploding in  craters  fot  which  he  was  heading;  so 
we  loitered  in  a  length  of  trench  where  sniping 
chanced  to  be  the  paramount  military  interest. 

An  officer  had  just  had  the  top  of  his  periscope 
shot  away;  and  there  was  something  very  like  a 
blush  on  his  jolly-looking  round  face  as  he  described 
the  incident.  At  another  point  (where  we  were  most 
politely  asked  to  duck  our  heads)  a  German  sniper 
was  in  the  habit,  it  seemed,  of  taking  one  carefully 
selected  opportunity  every  day — never  more,  lest  his 
situation  should  be  detected;  for  rival  snipers  in 
the  trenches  are  ever  waiting  and  watching,  if  haply 


SPIRITUAL  SUPREMACY  $07 

they  may  spy  one  another's  loop-holes.  Which 
things  were  told  me  in  the  gentlest  of  accents. 

And  tfrhen,  some  half-hour  later,  we  arrived  in 
the  craters,  and  a  courteous  officer  was  showing  us 
round,  I  was  less  impressed  by  the  newly  made  gre- 
nade holes  than  by  his  friendly  urbanity,  which  only 
took  on  a  shade  of  gravity  when  a  Sergeant  stepped 
up  to  him,  and,  with  a  quiet  dignity,  reported: 

"Lieutenant  Ward  has  just  been  shot  in  Gallery 
2,  sir." 

UA  serious  wound?"  the  officer  turned  to  inquire. 

"I  think  not,  sir,"  replied  the  messenger,  and,  sa- 
luting, he  quietly  withdrew.  Then  we  resumed  our 
chat  about  the  different  behaviour  of  various  kinds 
of  grenades — a  subject  on  which,  as  it  happened,  I 
had  already  received  a  good  deal  of  enlightenment. 

Attached  to  a  Public  Schools  battalion  on  the  pre- 
vious day,  I  had  for  my  orderly  a  Manchester  lad 
who  had  had  three  chums  fatally  stricken  by  rifle 
grenades,  and  he  told  me  all  about  it.  Moreover, 
after  dinner  some  subalterns  and  the  doctor  supplied 
me,  out  of  their  recent  experience,  with  fully  as  much 
supplementary  information  on  the  subject  as,  in  view 
of  my  impending  visit  to  the  trenches,  I  cared  to 
receive. 

Not  indeed  that  I  would  willingly  have  forgone 
those  tragic,  and  indeed  ghastly,  disclosures,  for  they 
served  once  more  to  show  how  marvellously  our 
lads  are  upheld  amid  the  trials  and  horrors  of  war. 

That  gentle-nurtured  lad  (he  had  been  a  choir- 
boy in  Manchester  Cathedral)  practically  beheld 
three  old  school  chums  leave  this  world,  in  rapid 
succession,  and  under  the  appalling  conditions  of  a 


208  SOULS  IN  KHAKI 

projectile  striking  and  shattering  each  familiar  and 
beloved  face. 

UI  saw  one  of  them  actually  hit,"  said  the  boy 
softly.  "That  was  my  friend  Teddy — an  awfully 
decent  chap.  He  and  I  were  just  about  the  same 
age,  and  we  were  always  pretty  thick  at  school.  We 
got  moved  together  from  one  form  to  another;  and 
now  Teddy  has — has  gone  away." 

His  eyes  were  shining,  but  not  with  grief.  We 
comfortable  folk  in  civil  life,  saturated  with  unap- 
preciated blessings,  not  seldom  lapse  into  ungrate- 
ful faithlessness.  The  light  on  his  countenance 
showed  how  far  Teddy's  friend  was  from  commit- 
ting that  blunder.  He  spoke  of  Teddy,  not  as  of  a 
being  who  had  ceased  to  exist,  but  rather  as  one 
who  had  passed  into  enduring  security. 

Those  Public  School  boys — what  splendidly  un- 
selfish young  soldiers  they  make !  For  through  one 
I  came  to  have  little  personal  glimpses  of  several- 
including  the  Hon.  This  and  Lord  That,  proud 
to  be  doing  groom's  work  in  the  British  Army;  and 
Charlie  Blank,  who  was  acting  as  sentry  under  the 
window  of  his  inseparable  college  chum,  Captain 
Willie  So-and-So. 

But  in  testifying  to  the  splendid  unselfishness  of 
our  Public  School  boys,  I  am  far  from  attributing 
that  condition  to  their  social  status.  Class  distinc- 
tions have  no  influence  in  the  war  area — that  en- 
trance zone  to  the  Kingdom  of  Heaven.  After  leav- 
ing Eton  and  Mill  Hill,  I  passed,  at  the  Front,  to 
Poplar  and  Stepney. 

With  a  head  like  a  plum-pudding  (because  of  its 
roundness  and  the  freckled  face),  Bugler  Chandler 


SPIRITUAL  SUPREMACY  209 

was  doubly  interesting  as  an  old  Barnardo  boy  and 
an  enthusiastic  Salvationist.  When  his  battalion  ar- 
rived in  the  firing  line,  forty  of  them  (including  a 
rough,  tough  group  addicted  to  horseplay)  were 
quartered  in  the  remains  of  a  farmhouse  on  La 
Bassee  Road. 

"They  were  all  in  one  room,"  said  Chandler, 
"and  they  started  a-bombardin'  one  another — stones, 
jabbin'  with  rifles,  and  some  playin'  about  with  the 
bayernit.  Seein'  it  was  Sunday,  I  come  in  for  my 
share.  Somebody  catched  me  one  with  a  big  brick." 

But  the  plum-pudding  was  a  picture  of  cheerful 
forgiveness. 

"Well,  in  the  roadway  jest  outside  I  see  a  Step- 
ney chap — name  o'  Smith — wot  was  a  Westleyan. 
So  I  goes  to  him  and  says,  'Come  on,'  I  says;  'let's 
'old  a  meetinV  'Right  you  are,'  he  says;  and  when 
we'd  gorn  back,  I  gets  up  on  a  biscuit-tin  and  gives 
out, 

"  'My  Jesus,  I  love  you, 
I  know  Thou  art  mine.' 

I've  got  'alf  a  tidy  voice,  bein'  noted  for  it." 

As    the    round,    honest,    glowing    face    testified, 
Chandler  was  concerned  merely  for  the  truth.    Self- 
depreciatory  insincerities  were  not  for  him. 
"The  chorus  we  put  to  it  was, 

"  'I  do  berfieve,  I  will  berlieve, 

That  Jesus  died  for  me; 
That  on  the  Cross  He  shed  His  blood, 
From  sin  ter  set  me  free.' 

They  knoo  it,  and  ought  to,  too,  seein'  as  there  was 
some  old  'uns  as  used  to  upset  Salvation  Army  open- 


210  SOULS  IN  KHAKI 

airs — the  remains  of  the  old  Skeleton  Army,  you 
might  say." 

He  went  on  with  the  Order  of  Service. 

"I  got  out  my  little  Testament  and  read  'em  a 
piece.  'We'll  'ave  John  iii.  16,'  I  says:  'God  so 
loved  the  world,  that  He  gave  His  only  begotten 

Son,  that  whosoever  believeth *  You  know  the 

bit;  it's  one  of  my  fav'rites.  I  put  up  Smith  (he's  a 
lot  better  scholar  than  me)  to  try  and  explain  it. 
After  that,  'e  give  'is  testimony,  an'  I  give  mine. 
Then  come  another  hymn — one  about 

"  'We  'ave  no  other  argumint, 
We  'ave  no  other  plea.' " 

What  with  the  presence  of  the  biscuit-tin,  and 
the  absence  of  surplices,  altar,  and  lectern,  no  serv- 
ice could  well  have  been  more  unlike  Evensong,  say, 
in  the  Established  Church.  But  what  of  its  results? 

"There'd  been  a  lot  of  laughin'  at  the  start — 
not  much;  and  when  I  was  readin'  John  iii.  16  some- 
body 'ad  somethin'  to  say,  only  the  others  told  'im 
to  'old  'is  row.  After  that  they  was  nice  and  quiet, 
and  there  was  a  lot  joined  in  the  singin'.  But  be- 
fore we  started  on  the  second  hymn,  I  says,  'Now, 
look  'ere,  if  anybody  feels  they  'ave  got  God  in 
their  'cart,'  I  says,  'please  step  forward  ter  say  you 
accept  Him.'  Before  we  was  through  with  the  first 
verse  one  came — a  chap  called  Brown;  The  next 
was  a  Jew  boy  named  Adolphus.  We  'ad  six  oth- 
ers at  that  first  meetin'." 

But  were  these  results  merely  emotional  and  tem- 
porary? 

"It  wasn't  more  than  a  month  afterwards  when 


SPIRITUAL  SUPREMACY  211 

a  private  in  the  R.A.M.C.  was  asklrT  why  our  lot 
didn't  carry  on  rough  the  same  as  they  used  to. 
'That's  all  stopped  now,'  I  says. 
"  'Oo  stopped  it?'  says  'e. 

"  The  Lord  Jesus  Christ,'  I  says. 

"  '  'Ow  d'yer  mean,'  says  'e. 

"  'Why,  it's  like  this  'ere,'  I  says,  Tm  a  Salva- 
tionist, and  my  chum  is  much  the  same,  and  we 
'old  meetings  in  the  barn.'  ' 

And  next  minute  he  was  talking  about  something 
else. 

"I've  been  by  myself  all  the  afternoon,  and — wot 
d'yer  think?  I've  been  so  'appy  I  didn't  'ardly  know 
wot  to  do.  Fust  I  goes  through  all  my  fav'rite 
hymns,  leadin'  off  with  Tm  climbing  up  the  golden 
stairs  to  Glory.'  Then  I  gets  out  my  Testament 
and  reads  a  very  interestin'  place — Acts  xii.  You 
know — about  Peter  bein'  put  in  prison  and  the  angel 
of  the  Lord  comin'  and  makin'  'is  chains  fall  off  of 
'im.  Then  I  turned  to  John  x.  That's  where  it  says 
'I  am  the  Good  Shepherd ;  the  good  shepherd  giveth 
his  life  for  the  sheep.'  That's  eleven  of  ten;  and, 
yer  know,  I  do  call  that  a  fine  bit." 

For  Chandler  is  one  of  the  most  appreciative  pos- 
sessors of  a  Bible  that  it  was  ever  my  privilege  to 
meet.  I  began  to  discern  a  halo  round  the  plum- 
pudding.  But  the  account  of  his  happy  afternoon 
awaits  the  final  touch  he  gave  it: 

"Then  down  I  goes  on  my  'ands  and  knees  and 
'ad  a  good  pray  with  the  Lord." 

And  thus  that  Stepney  Causeway  boy  was  an  ex- 
alted example  of  the  predominant  spirit  at  the  Front 
— in  the  midst  of  the  war  he  was  absolutely  at  peace. 


SOULS  IN  KHAKI 

The  "predominant"  spirit,  I  say.  For,  of  course, 
the  picture  has  its  other  side — its  awful  other  side. 
I  saw  that  other  side,  not  at  first  hand,  but  through 
the  eyes  of  several  Salvationists.  With  a  sort  of 
heart-broken  sternness,  they  would  tell  of  some  re- 
bellious one  with  whom  they  had  pleaded  in  vain. 
Self-willed  and  a  mocker,  given  to  oaths  and  filthy 
conversation,  he  committed  the  supreme  sin  of  re- 
fusing to  acknowledge  himself  as  a  sinner.  Reiter- 
ated entreaties  and  warnings  were  alike  disregarded; 
the  alternative  to  salvation  was  deliberately  chosen. 
With  pitiful  and  affrighted  eyes,  the  Salvationist 
would  tell  how  an  appalling  death  came  swiftly  to 
seal  that  choice. 

But  tragedies  of  the  soul  belong  to  a  depth  of 
sadness  that  the  human  mind  cannot  fathom. 

Let  our  thoughts  turn  finally  to  the  glorious  ma- 
jority. At  the  Front  our  faithful  champions  find 
that  the  spirit  is  supreme  and  the  flesh  subordinate. 
The  grocer's  assistant  and  the  earl's  son  stand  shoul- 
der to  shoulder  as  mud-bedabbled  brothers  sharing, 
in  return  for  their  common  sacrifice  of  earthly  joys, 
the  wondrous  compensation  of  divine  guardianship 
and  consolation. 

To  that  fact  the  investigator's  personal  experi- 
ences all  pointed.  Ringing  in  my  memory  as  I  re- 
crossed  the  English  Channel  were  these  words: 

"I  know  that  His  arms  are  round  me." 

Two  lads  in  the  firing  line  had  actually  spoken 
those  words.  Many  others  made  the  beautiful  con- 
fession by  implication. 

THE    END 


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